I 


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o« 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS  LIBRARY  AT  URBANA-CHAMPAlGN 


MAY 


0 * m 


L161  — 0-1096 


LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY-OF  ILLINOIS 
AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 

822 „ 33 
DJ2 
1899 
cop  02 


O Jo  fie /2  a. 


ft 


« 


Contents 

PAGE. 


Preface  ......  5 

CHARACTERS  OF  INTELLECT 

Portia  , , . . . 9 

Isabella  . . . . . .37 

Beatrice  ......  53 

Rosalind  ......  63 


CHARACTERS  OF  PASSION  AND 
IMAGINATION 

Juliet  ...... 

Helena  ..... 

Perdita  ...... 

Viola  ...... 

Ophelia  ...... 

Miranda  ..... 


73 

105 

121 

129 

135 

153 


CHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS 

Hermione  . e . 

Desdemona  ..... 

^Imogen  ...... 

Cordelia  ..... 


165 

184 

196 

219 


% 


4 


Contents. 

HISTORICAL  CHARACTERS 


PAGE. 

Cleopatra  .....  239 

Oct avia  269 

Volumnia  .....  273 

Constance  of  Bretagne  ....  283 

Elinor  of  Guienne  ....  310 

Blanche  of  Castile  . 313 

Margaret  of  Anjou  . 319 

Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon  . . . 329 

Lady  Macbeth  .....  357 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


IN  preparing  for  the  press  a second  edition  of 
this  little  work,  the  author  has  endeavored 
to  render  it  more  worthy  of  the  approbation 
and  kindly  feeling  with  which  it  has  been  re- 
ceived: she  cannot  better  express  her  sense  of 
both  than  by  justifying,  as  far  as  it  is  in  her  power, 
the  cordial  and  flattering  tone  of  all  the  public 
criticisms.  It  is  to  the  great  name  of  Shaks- 
peare,  that  bond  of  sympathy  among  all  who 
speak  his  language,  and  to  the  subject  of  the 
work,  not  to  its  own  merits,  that  she  attributes 
the  success  it  has  met  with — success  the  more 
delightful,  because,  in  truth,  it  was  from  the  very 
first  so  entirely  unlooked  for  as  to  be  a matter 
of  surprise  as  well  as  of  pleasure,  and  gratitude. 

In  this  edition  there  are  many  corrections,  and 
some  additions,  which  the  author  hopes  may  be 
deemed  improvements.  She  has  been  induced  to 
insert  several  quotations  at  length  which  were 
formerly  only  referred  to,  from  observing  that* 
however  familiar  they  may  be  to  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  they  are  always  recognized  with  pleasure 
like  dear  domestic  faces;  and  if  the  memory  fail  at 
the  moment  to  recall  the  lines  or  the  sentiment 
to  which  the  attention  is  directly  required,  few 
like  to  interrupt  the  course  of  thought,  or  under- 
take a journey  from  the  sofa  or  garden-seat  to  the 
5 


6 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

library  to  hunt  out  the  volume,  the  play,  the  pass- 
age, for  themselves. 

When  the  first  edition  was  sent  to  press,  the 
author  contemplated  writing  the  Life  of  Mrs. 
Siddons,  with  a reference  to  her  art;  and  deferred 
the  complete  development  of  the  character  of 
Lady  Macbeth  till  she  should  be  able  to  illustrate 
it  by  the  impersonation  and  commentary  of  that 
grand  and  gifted  actress:  but  the  task  having 
fallen  into  other  hands,  the  analysis  of  the  charac- 
ter has  been  almost  entirely  rewritten  as  at  first 
conceived,  or  rather  restored  to  its  original  form- 


Characters  of  Intellect. 


I 


PORTIA. 


WE  hear  it  asserted,  not  seldom  by  way  of 
compliment  to  ns  women,  that  intellect 
is  of  no  sex.  If  this  means  that  the  same 
faculties  of  mind  are  common  to  men  and  women, 
it  is  true;  in  any  other  signification  it  appears  to 
me  false,  and  the  reverse  of  a compliment.  The 
intellect  of  woman  bears  the  same  relation  to  that 
of  man  as  her  physical  organization;  it  is  inferior 
in  power,  and  different  in  kind.  That  certain 
women  have  surpassed  certain  men  in  bodily 
strength  or  intellectual  energy  does  not  contra- 
dict the  general  principle  founded  in  nature. 
The  essential  and  invariable  distinction  appears 
to  me  this:  in  men,  the  intellectual  faculties  exist 
more  self-poised  and  self-directed — more  inde- 
pendent of  the  rest  of  the  character,  than  we 
ever  find  them  in  women,  with  whom  talent,  how- 
ever predominant,  is  in  a much  greater  degree 
modified  by  the  sympathies  and  moral  qualities. 

In  thinking  over  all  the  distinguished  women 
I can  at  this  moment  call  to  mind,  I recollect  but 
one  who,  in  the  exercise  of  a rare  talent,  belied 
her  sex;  but  the  moral  qualities  had  been  first 
perverted.*  It  is  from  not  knowing,  or  not  allow- 

* Artemisia  Gentileschi,  an  Italian  artist  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  painted  one  or  two  pictures,  considered  ad- 
mirable as  works  of  art,  of  which  the  subjects  are  the  most 
vicious  and  barbarous  conceivable.  I remember  one  of 
these  in  the  gallery  of  Florence,  which  I looked  at  once,  but 
once,  and  wished  then,  as  I do  now,  for  the  privilege  of 
burning  it  to  ashes. 


9 


10  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

ing  this  general  principle,  that  men  of  genius 
have  committed  some  signal  mistakes.  They  have 
given  us  exquisite  and  just  delineations  of  the 
more  peculiar  characteristics  of  women,  as  mod- 
esty, grace,  tenderness;  and  when  they  have 
attempted  to  portray  them  with  the  powers  com- 
mon to  both  sexes,  as  wit,  energy,  intellect,  they 
have  blundered  in  some  respect;  they  could  form 
no  conception  of  intellect  which  was  not  mascu- 
line, and  therefore  have  either  suppressed  the 
feminine  attributes  altogether  and  drawn  coarse 
caricatures,  or  they  have  made  them  completely 
artificial.*  Women  distinguished  for  wit  may 
sometimes  appear  masculine  and  flippant,  but  the 
cause  must  be  sought  elsewhere  than  in  nature, 
who  disclaims  all  such.  Hence  the  witty  and  in- 
tellectual ladies  of  our  comedies  and  novels  are 
all  in  the  fashion  of  some  particular  time:  they 
are  like  some  old  portraits  which  can  still  amuse 
and  please  by  the  beauty  of  the  workmanship, 
in  spite  of  the  graceless  costume  or  grotesque 
accompaniments,  but  from  which  we  turn  to 
worship  with  ever  new  delight  the  Floras  and 
goddesses  of  Titian,  the  saints  and  the  virgins  of 
Raffaelle  and  Domenichino.  So  the  Millamants 
and  Belindas,  the  Lady  Townleys  and  Lady 
Teazles  are  out  of  date,  while  Portia  and  Rosa- 
lind, in  whom  nature  and  the  feminine  character 
are  paramount,  remain  bright  and  fresh  to  the 
fancy  as  when  first  created. 

* Lucy  Ashton,  in  the  “Bride  of  Lammermoor,”  may  be 
placed  next  to  Desdemona;  Diana  Vernon  is  (comparatively) 
a failure,  as  every  woman  will  allow;  while  the  masculine 
Lady  Geraldine,  in  Miss  Edgeworth’s  tale  of  “Ennui,”  and 
the  intellectual  Corinne,  are  consistent,  essential  women; 
the  distinction  is  more  easily  felt  than  analyzed. 


Portia. 


11 


Portia,  Isabella,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind  may  be 
classed  together  as  characters  of  intellect,  because, 
when  compared  with  others,  they  are  at  once  dis- 
tinguished by  their  mental  superiority.  In  Portia, 
it  is  intellect  kindled  into  romance  by  a poetical 
imagination;  in  Isabel,  it  is  intellect  elevated  by 
religious  principle;  in  Beatrice,  intellect  animated 
by  spirit;  in  Rosalind,  intellect  softened  by  sen- 
sibility. The  wit  which  is  lavished  on  each  is 
profound,  or  pointed,  or  sparkling,  or  playful— 
but  always  feminine:  like  spirits  distilled  from 
flowers,  it  always  reminds  us  of  its  origin;  it  is 
a volatile  essence,  sweet  as  powerful;  and  to 
pursue  the  comparison  a step  further,  the  wit  of 
Portia  is  like  attar  of  roses,  rich  and  concentrated; 
that  of  Rosalind,  like  cotton  dipped  in  aromatic 
vinegar;  the  wit  of  Beatrice  is  like  salvolatile, 
and  that  of  Isabel  like  the  incense  wafted  to 
heaven.  Of  these  four  exquisite  characters,  con- 
sidered as  dramatic  and  poetical  conceptions,  it 
is  difficult  to  pronounce  which  is  most  perfect 
in  its  way,  most  admirably  drawn,  most  highly 
finished.  But  if  considered  in  another  point  of 
view,  as  women  and  individuals,  as  breathing  real* 
ities,  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood,  I believe  we 
must  assign  the  first  rank  to  Portia,  as  uniting 
in  herself,  in  a more  eminent  degree  than  the 
others,  all  the  noblest  and  most  lovable  qualities 
that  ever  met  together  in  woman,  and  present- 
ing a complete  personification  of  Petrarch/ s ex- 
quisite epitome  of  female  perfection — 

II  vago  spirito  ardento, 

E 'en  alto  Intel letto,  nn  puro  core. 


12  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

It  is  singular  that  hitherto  no  critical  justice 
has  been  done  to  the  character  of  Portia;  it  is  yet 
more  wonderful  that  one  of  the  finest  writers  on 
the  eternal  subject  of  Shakspeare  and  his  perfec- 
tions should  accuse  Portia  of  pedantry  and  affec- 
tation, and  confess  she  is  not  a great  favorite 
of  his — a confession  quite  worthy  of  him  who 
avers  his  predilection  for  servant-maids,  and  his 
preference  of  the  Fannys  and  the  Pamelas  over 
the  Clementinas  and  Clarissas.*  Schlegel,  who 
has  given  several  pages  to  a rapturous  eulogy  on 
the  "Merchant  of  Venice,”  simply  designates 
Portia  as  a "rich,  beautiful,  clever  heiress.” 
Whether  the  fault  lies  in  the  writer  or  translator, 
I do  protest  against  the  word  clever.t  Portia 
clever ! What  an  epithet  to  apply  to  this  heavenly 
compound  of  talent,  feeling,  wisdom,  beauty,  and 
gentleness.  Now,  would  it  not  be  well  if  this  com- 
mon and  comprehensive  word  were  more  accu- 
rately defined,  or  at  least  more  accurately  used? 
It  signifies  properly,  not  so  much  the  possession 
of  high  powers  as  dexterity  in  the  adaptation  of 
certain  faculties  (not  necessarily  of  a high  order) 
to  a certain  end  or  aim — not  always  the  worthiest. 
It  implies  something  commonplace,  inasmuch  as 
it  speaks  the  presence  of  the  active  and  percep- 
tive, with  a deficiency  of  the  feeling  and  reflective 
powers;  and,  applied  to  a woman,  does  it  not 
almost  invariably  suggest  the  idea  of  something 
we  should  distrust  or  shrink  from,  if  not  allied 
to  a higher  nature?  The  profligate  French 

* Hazlitt’s  “Essays,”  Vol.  II,  p.  167. 

•J-  I am  informed  that  the  original  German  word  is  geist- 
reiche ; literally.  rich,  in  soul  or  spirit,  a just  and  beautiful 
epithet.— Second  Edition. 


Portia. 


13 


women  who  ruled  the  councils  of  Europe  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century  were  clever  women; 
and  that  philosopher  ess , Madame  du  Chatelet,  who 
managed  at  one  and  the  same  moment  the  thread 
of  an  intrigue,  her  cards  at  piquet,  and  a calcula- 
tion in  algebra,  was  a very  clever  woman!  If 
Portia  had  been  created  as  a mere  instrument  to 
bring  about  a dramatic  catastrophe — if  she  had 
merely  detected  the  flaw  in  Antonio’s  bond  and 
used  it  as  a means  to  baffle  the  Jew,  she  might 
have  been  pronounced  a clever  woman.  But  what 
Portia  does  is  forgotton  in  what  she  is.  The  rare 
and  harmonious  blending  of  energy,  reflection, 
and  feeling,  in  her  fine  character,  makes  the 
epithet  clever  sound  like  a discord  as  applied  to 
her , and  places  her  infinitely  beyond  the  slight 
praise  of  Richardson  and  Schlegel,  neither  of 
whom  appears  to  have  fully  comprehended  her. 

These  and  other  critics  have  been  apparently 
so  dazzled  and  engrossed  by  the  amazing  charac- 
ter of  Shylock,  that  Portia  has  received  less  than 
justice  at  their  hands;  while  the  fact  is,  that  Shy- 
lock  is  not  a finer  or  more  finished  character  in 
his  way  than  Portia  is  in  hers.  These  two  splen- 
did figures  are  worthy  of  each  other — worthy  of 
being  placed  together  within  the  same  rich  frame- 
work of  enchanting  poetry  and  glorious  and  grace- 
ful forms.  She  hangs  beside  the  terrible,  inex- 
orable Jew,  the  brilliant  lights  of  her  character 
set  off  by  the  shadowy  power  of  his,  like  a mag- 
nificent beauty-breathing  Titian  by  the  side  of  a 
gorgeous  Rembrandt. 

Portia  is  endued  with  her  own  share  of  those  de- 
lightful qualities  which  Shakspeare  has  lavished 


14  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

on  many  of  his  female  characters;  but  besides  the 
dignity,  the  sweetness,  and  tenderness  which 
should  distinguished  her  sex  generally,  she  is  indi- 
vidualized by  qualities  peculiar  to  herself;  by  her 
high  mental  powers,  her  enthusiasm  of  tempera- 
ment, her  decision  of  purpose,  and  her  buoyancy 
of  spirit.  These  are  innate;  she  lias  other  distin- 
guishing qualities  more  external,  and  which  are 
the  result  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  is 
placed.  Thus  she  is  the  heiress  of  a princely  name 
and  countless  wealth;  a train  of  obedient  pleas- 
ures have  ever  waited  round  her;  and  from  in- 
fancy she  has  breathed  an  atmosphere  redolent  of 
perfume  and  blandishment.  Accordingly  there  is 
a commanding  grace,  a high-bred,  airy  elegance, 
a spirit  of  magnificence,  in  all  that  she  does  and 
says,  as  one  to  whom  splendor  had  been  familiar 
from  her  very  birth.  She  treads  as  though  her 
footsteps  had  been  among  marble  palaces,  beneath 
roofs  of  fretted  gold,  o’er  cedar  floors  and  pave- 
ments of  jasper  and  porphyry;  amid  gardens  full 
of  statues,  and  flowers,  and  fountains,  and  haunt- 
ing music.  She  is  full  of  penetrative  wisdom, 
and  genuine  tenderness,  and  lively  wit;  but  as 
she  has  never  known  want,  or  grief,  or  fear,  or 
disappointment,  her  wisdom  is  without  a touch 
of  the  sombre  or  the  sad;  her  affections  are  ail 
mixed  up  with  faith,  hope,  and  joy;  and  her  wit 
has  not  a particle  of  malevolence  or  causticity. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  “Merchant  of  Venice” 
is  founded  on  two  different  tales;  and  in  weaving 
together  his  double  plot  in  so  masterly  a man- 
ner Shakspeare  has  rejected  altogether  the  charac- 
ter of  the  astutious  lady  of  Belmont  with  her 


Portia. 


15 


magic  potions,  who  figures  in  the  Italian  novel. 
With  yet  more  refinement,  he  has  thrown  out 
all  the  licentious  part  of  the  story,  which  some 
of  his  contemporary  dramatists  would  have  seized 
on  with  avidity,  and  made  the  best  or  the  worst 
of  it  possible;  and  he  has  substituted  the  trial  of 
the  caskets  from  another  source.*  We  are  not 
told  expressly  where  Belmont  is  situated;  but  as 
Bassanio  takes  ship  to  go  thither  from  Venice* 
and  as  we  find  them  afterwards  ordering  horses 
from  Belmont  to  Padua,  we  will  imagine  Portia’s 
hereditary  palace  as  standing  on  some  lovely  prom* 
ontory  between  Venice  and  Trieste,  overlooking 
the  blue  Adriatic,  with  the  Friuli  mountains  or 
the  Euganean  hills  for  its  background,  such  as  we 
often  see  in  one  of  Claude’s  or  Poussin’s  elysian 
landscapes.  In  a scene,  in  a home  like  this,. 
Shakspeare,  having  first  exorcised  the  original 
possessor,  has  placed  his  Portia:  and  so  endowed 
her,  that  all  the  wild,  strange  and  moving  cir- 
cumstances of  the  story  become  natural,  probable,, 
and  necessary  in  connection  with  her.  That  such 
a woman  should  be  chosen  by  the  solving  of  an 
enigma  is  not  surprising:  herself  and  all  around, 
her,  the  scene,  the  country,  the  age  in  which  she 
is  placed,  breathe  of  poetry,  romance,  and  en- 
chantment— 


From  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  they  come 
To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Hyrcanian  desert,  and  the  vasty  wilds 
Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  thoroughfares  now, 

* In  the  “Mercatante  di  Venezia”  of  Ser.  Giovanni,  we 
have  the  whole  story  of  Antonio  and  Bassanio,  and  part  of 
the  story,  but  not  the  character,  of  Portia.  The  incident  of 
the  caskets  is  from  the  “Gesta  Romanorum.” 


16 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia; 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 
Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 
To  stop  the  foreign  spirits;  but  they  come 
As  o’er  a brook  to  see  fair  Portia. 


The  sudden  plan  which  she  forms  for  the  re- 
lease of  her  husband’s  friend,  her  disguise,  and 
her  deportment  as  the  young  and  learned  doctor 
would  appear  forced  and  improbable  in  any  other 
woman,  but  in  Portia  are  the  simple  and  natural 
result  of  her  character.*  The  quickness  with 
which  she  perceives  the  legal  advantage  which 
may  be  taken  of  the  circumstances;  the  spirit  of 
adventure  with  which  she  engages  in  the  mas- 
querading, and  the  decision,  firmness,  and  intel- 
ligence with  which  she  executes  her  generous  pur- 
pose, are  all  in  perfect  keeping,  and  nothing 
appears  forced — nothing  as  introduced  merely  for 
theatrical  effect. 

But  all  the  finest  parts  of  Portia’s  character 
are  brought  to  bear  in  the  trial  scene.  There  she 
shines  forth  all  her  divine  self.  Her  intellectual 
powers,  her  elevated  sense  of  religion,  her  high, 
honorable  principles,  her  best  feelings  as  a woman 
are  all  displayed.  She  maintains  at  first  a calm 
self-command,  as  one  sure  of  carrying  her  point 
in  the  end;  yet  the  painful,  heart-thrilling  uncer- 
tainty in  which  she  keeps  the  whole  court,  until 
suspense  verges  upon  agony,  is  not  contrived  for 
effect  merely;  it  is  necessary  and  inevitable.  She 
has  two  objects  in  view — to  deliver  her  husband’s 

* In  that  age,  delicate  points  of  law  were  not  determined 
by  the  ordinary  judges  of  the  provinces,  but  by  doctors  of 
law,  who  were  called  from  Bologna,  Padua  and  other  places 
celebrated  for  their  legal  colleges. 


Portia. 


17 


friend,  and  to  maintain  her  husband’s  honor  by 
the  discharge  of  his  just  debt,  though  paid  out  of 
her  own  wealth  ten  times  over.  It  is  evident  that 
she  would  rather  owe  the  safety  of  Antonio  to 
anything  rather  than  the  legal  quibble  with 
which  her  cousin  Bellario  has  armed  her,  and 
which  she  reserves  as  a last  resource.  Thus  all 
the  speeches  addressed  to  Shylock  in  the  first  in- 
stant are  either  direct  or  indirect  experiments 
on  his  temper  and  feelings.  She  must  be  under- 
stood, from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  as  examin- 
ing with  intense  anxiety  the  effect  of  her  own 
words  on  his  mind  and  countenance;  as  watching 
for  that  relenting  spirit  which  she  hopes  to 
awaken  either  by  reason  or  persuasion.  She 
begins  by  an  appeal  to  his  mercy,  in  that  match- 
less piece  of  eloquence  which,  with  an  irresistible 
and  solemn  pathos,  falls  upon  the  heart  like 
“gentle  dew  from  heaven:” — but  in  vain;  for  that 
blessed  dew  drops  not  more  fruitless  and  unfelt 
on  the  parched  sand  of  the  desert  than  do  these 
heavenly  words  upon  the  ear  of  Shylock.  She 
next  attacks  his  avarice — 

Shylock,  there’s  thrice  thy  money  offer’d  thee. 

Then  she  appeals  in  the  same  breath,  both  to  his 
avarice  and  his  pity — 

Be  merciful! 

Take  thrice  thy  money.  Bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

All  that  she1  says  afterwards — her  strong  expres- 
sions, which  are  calculated  to  strike  a shudder- 
ing horror  through  the  nerves;  the  reflections  she 


18 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

interposes,  her  delays  and  circumlocution  to  give 
time  for  any  latent  feeling  of  commiseration  to 
display  itself;  all,  all  are  premeditated,  and  tend 
in  the  same  manner  to  the  object  she  has  in  view. 
Thus— 


You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom! 

These  two  speeches,  though  addressed  appar- 
ently to  Antonio,  are  spoken  at  Shylock,  and  are 
evidently  intended  to  penetrate  his  bosom.  In 
the  same  spirit  she  asks  for  the  balance  to  weigh 
the  pound  of  flesh;  and  entreats  of  Shylock  to 
have  a surgeon  ready — 

Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 

To  stop  his  wounds  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death! 

Shylock.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond? 

Portia.  It  is  not  so  express’d— but  what  of  that? 

*Twere  good  you  do  so  much,  for  charity. 


So  unwilling  is  her  sanguine  and  generous  spirit 
to  resign  all  hope,  or  to  believe  that  humanity 
is  absolutely  extinct  in  the  bosom  of  the  Jew, 
that  she  calls  on  Antonio,  as  a last  resource,  to 
speak  for  himself.  His  gentle  yet  manly  resigna- 
tion— the  deep  pathos  of  his  farewell,  and  the 
affectionate  allusion  to  herself  in  his  last  address 
to  Bassanio — 

Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife; 

Say  how  I loved  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death,  etc. 

are  well  calculated  to  swell  that  emotion  which 
through  the  whole  scene  must  have  been  laboring 
suppressed  within  her  heart. 


Portia. 


19 


At  length  the  crisis  arrives,  for  patience  and 
womanhood  can  endure  no  longer;  and  when  Shy- 
lock,  carrying  his  savage  bent  “to  the  last  hour 
of  act,”  springs  on  his  victim — “A  sentence! 
come,  prepare!”  then  the  smothered  scorn,  in- 
dignation, and  disgust  burst  forth  with  an  im- 
petuosity which  interferes  with  the  judicial 
solemnity  she  had  at  first  affected;  particularly 
in  the  speech — 

Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 

Shed  thou  no  blood;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more. 

But  just  the  pound  of  flesh;  if  thou  tak’st  more 
Or  less  than  a just  pound— be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 

Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a hair— 

Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

But  she  afterwards  recovers  her  propriety,  and 
triumphs  with  a cooler  scorn  and  a more  self-pos- 
sessed exultation. 

It  is  clear  that,  to  feel  the  full  force  and 
dramatic  beauty  of  this  marvelous  scene,  we  must 
go  along  with  Portia  as  well  as  with  Shylock;  we 
must  understand  her  concealed  purpose,  keep  in 
mind  her  noble  motives,  and  pursue  in  our  fancy 
the  under-current  of  feeling  working  in  her  mind 
throughout.  The  terror  and  the  power  of  Shy- 
lock’s  character — his  deadly  and  inexorable  malice 
— would  be  too  oppressive;  the  pain  and  pity  too 
intolerable,  and  the  horror  of  the  possible  issue 
too  overwhelming,  but  for  the  intellectual  relief 
afforded  by  this  double  source  of  interest  and 
contemplation. 


20  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

I come  now  to  that  capacity  for  warm  and  gen- 
erous affection,  that  tenderness  of  heart,  which 
render  Portia  not  less  lovable  as  a woman  than 
admirable  for  her  mental  endowments.  The 
affections  are  to  the  intellect  what  the  forge  is  to 
the  metal;  it  is  they  which  temper  and  shape  it 
to  all  good  purposes,  and  soften,  strengthen,  and 
purify  it.  What  an  exquisite  stroke  of  judgment 
in  the  poet,  to  make  the  mutual  passion  of  Portia 
and  Bassanio,  though  unacknowledged  to  each 
other,  anterior  to  the  opening  of  the  play! 
Bassanio’s  confession  very  properly  comes  first — 


Bassanio.  In  Belmont  is  a lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word, 

Of  wondrous  virtues:  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I did  receive  fair  speechless  messages; 

* • * * * « 


and  prepares  us  for  Portia’s  half-betrayed,  un- 
conscious election  of  this  most  graceful  and 
chivalrous  admirer — 

Ncrissa.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father’s 
time,  a Venetian,  a scholar,  and  a soldier,  that  came  hither 
in  company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat? 

Portia.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio;  as  I think,  so  he  was 
called. 

Ncrissa.  True,  madam;  he  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my 
foolish  eyes  looked  upon  was  the  best  deserving  a fair  lady. 

Portia.  I remember  him  well;  and  I remember  him  worthy 
of  thy  praise. 

Our  interest  is  thus  awakened  for  the  lovers 
from  the  very  first;  and  what  shall  be  said  of  the 
casket  scene  with  Bassanio,  where  every  line 
which  Portia  speaks  is  so  worthy  of  herself,  so 


Portia. 


21 


full  of  sentiment  and  beauty,  and  poetry,  and 
passion?  Too  naturally  frank  for  disguise,  too 
modest  to  confess  her  depth  of  love  while  the 
issue  of  the  trial  remains  in  suspense,  the  con- 
flict between  love  and  fear,  and  maidenly  dignity, 
cause  the  most  delicious  confusion  that  ever 
tinged  a woman’s  cheek  or  dropped  in  broken 
utterance  from  her  lips — 

I pray  you,  tarry;  pause  a day  or  two, 

Before  you  hazard;  for  in  choosing  wrong, 

I lose  your  company;  therefore,  forbear  awhile; 
There’s  something  tells  me  (but  it  is  not  love) 

I would  not  lose  you;  and  you  know  yourself, 

Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a quality: 

But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well 
(And  yet  a maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought), 

I would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 

Before  you  venture  for  me.  I could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,— but  then  I am  forsworn;— 

So  will  I never  be:  so  you  may  miss  me;— 

But  if  you  do,  you’ll  make  me  wish  a sin, 

That  I had  been  forsworn.  Beshrew  your  eyes, 

They  have  o’erlooked  me,  and  divided  me; 

One-half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours,— 

Mine  own,  I would  say;  but  if  mine,  then  yourS, 

And  so  all  yours! 


The  short  dialogue  between  the  lovers  is  ex- 
quisite— 


Bassanio.  Let  me  choose; 

For,  as  I am,  I live  upon  the  rack. 

Portia.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio?  Then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bassanio.  None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love. 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
’Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 


22  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Portia.  Ay!  but  I fear  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men,  enforced,  do  speak  anything. 

Bassanio.  Promise  me  life,  and  I’ll  confess  the  truth. 

Portia.  Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bassanio.  Confess  and  love 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession! 

O happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance! 

A prominent  feature  in  Portia’s  character  is 
that  confiding,  buoyant  spirit  which  mingles  with 
all  her  thoughts  and  affections.  And  here  let  me 
observe,  that  I never  yet  met  in  real  life,  nor  ever 
read  in  tale  or  history,  of  any  woman,  distin- 
guished for  intellect  of  the  highest  order,  who 
was  not  also  remarkable  for  this  trusting  spirit, 
this  hopefulness  and  cheerfulness  of  temper, 
which  is  compatible  with  the  most  serious  habits 
of  thought  and  the  most  profound  sensibility. 
Lady  Wortley  Montagu  was  one  instance;  and 
Madame  de  Stael  furnishes  another  much  more 
memorable.  In  her  Corinne,  whom  she  drew  from 
herself,  this  natural  brightness  of  temper  is  a 
prominent  part  of  the  character.  A disposition 
to  doubt,  to  suspect,  and  to  despond,  in  the 
young,  argues,  in  general,  some  inherent  weak- 
ness, moral  or  physical,  or  some  miserable  and 
radical  error  of  education;  in  the  old,  it  is  one 
of  the  first  symptoms  of  age;  it  speaks  of  the  in- 
fluence of  sorrow  and  experience,  and  foreshadows 
the  decay  of  the  stronger  and  more  generous 
powers  of  the  soul.  Portia’s  strength  of  intellect 
takes  a natural  tinge  from  the  flush  and  bloom 
of  her  young  and  prosperous  existence,  and  from 
her  fervid  imagination.  In  the  casket  scene  she 
fears  indeed  the  issue  of  the  trial,  on  which  more 


Portia. 


23 


than  her  life  is  hazarded;  but  while  she  trembles, 
her  hope  is  stronger  than  her  fear.  While  Bassa- 
nio  is  contemplating  the  caskets,  she  suffers  her- 
self to  dwell  for  one  moment  on  the  possibility 
of  disappointment  and  misery — 

Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice; 

Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a swan-like  end, 

Fading  in  music;  that  the  comparison 

May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream 

And  wat’ry  death-bed  for  him. 


Then  immediately  follows  that  revulsion  of 
feeling  so  beautifully  characteristic  of  the  hope- 
ful, trusting,  mounting  spirit  of  this  noble 
creature — 

But  he  may  win! 

And  what  is  music  then?— then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish,  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a new-crowned  monarch:  such  it  is 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  at  break  of  day 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom’s  ear, 

And  summon  him  to  marriage.  Now  he  goes 
With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  love, 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea  monster.  I stand  here  for  sacrifice. 

Here,  not  only  the  feeling  itself,  bom  of  the 
elastic  and  sanguine  spirit  which  had  never  been 
touched  by  grief;  but  the  images  in  which  it 
comes  arrayed  to  her  fancy;  the  bridegroom 
waked  by  music  on  his  wedding-morn;  the  new- 
crowned  monarch — the'  comparison  of  Bassanio 
to  the  young  Alcides,  and  of  herself  to  the 
daughter  of  Laomedon,  are  all  precisely  what 
would  have  suggested  themselves  to  the  fine 
poetical  imagination  of  Portia  in  such  a moment. 


24 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Her  passionate  exclamations  of  delight  when 
Bassanio  has  fixed  on  the  right  casket,  are  as 
strong  as  though  she  had  despaired  before.  Fear 
and  doubt  she  could  repel; — the  native  elasticity 
of  her  mind  bore  up  against  them;  yet  she  makes 
us  feel  that,  as  the  sudden  joy  overpowers  her 
almost  to  fainting,  the  disappointment  would  as 
certainly  have  killed  her — 

How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 

As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac’d  despair, 

And  shudd’ring  fear,  and  green-ey’d  jealousy! 

0 love!  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy; 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess: 

1 feel  too  much  thy  blessing;  make  it  less, 

For  fear  I surfeit! 

Her  subsequent  surrender  of  herself  in  heart 
and  soul,  of  her  maiden  freedom,  and  her  vast 
possessions,  can  never  be  read  without  deep 
emotion;  for  not  only  all  the  tenderness  and  deli- 
cacy of  a devoted  woman  are  here  blended  with 
all  the  dignity  which  becomes  the  princely  heiress 
of  Belmont,  but  the  serious,  measured  self-pos- 
session of  her  address  to  her  lover  when  all  sus- 
pense is  over,  and  all  concealment  superfluous,  is 
most  beautifully  consistent  with  the  character. 
It  is,  in  truth,  an  awful  moment,  that  in  which 
a gifted  woman  first  discovers  that,  besides  talents 
and  powers,  she  has  also  passions  and  affections: 
when  she  first  begins  to  suspect  their  vast  im- 
portance in  the  sum  of  her  experience;  when  she 
first  confesses  that  her  happiness  is  no  longer  in 
her  own  keeping,  but  is  surrendered  for  ever  and 
for  ever  into  the  dominion  of  another!  The 


Portia. 


25 


possession  of  uncommon  powers  of  mind  are  so 
far  from  affording  relief  or  resource  in  the  first 
intoxicating  surprise — I had  almost  said  terror — 
of  such  a revolution,  that  they  render  it  more  in- 
tense. The  sources  of  thought  multiply  beyond 
calculation  the  sources  of  feeling;  and  mingled, 
they  rush  together,  a torrent  deep  as  strong.  Be- 
cause Portia  is  endued  with  that  enlarged  com- 
prehension which  looks  before  and  after,  she  does 
not  feel  the  less,  but  the  more:  because  from  the 
height  of  her  commanding  intellect  she  can  con- 
template the  force,  the  tendency,  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  sentiments — because  she  is 
fully  sensible  of  her  own  situation  and  the  value 
of  all  she  concedes — the  concession  is  not  made 
with  less  entireness  and  devotion  of  heart,  less 
confidence  in  the  truth  and  worth  of  her  lover, 
than  when  Juliet,  in  a similar  moment,  but  with- 
out any  such  intrusive  reflections — any  check  but 
the  instinctive  delicacy  of  her  sex,  flings  herself 
and  her  fortunes  at  the  feet  of  her  lover — 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  feet  I’ll  lay, 

And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  through  all  the  world.* 


In  Portia’s  confession,  which  is  not  breathed  from 
a moonlit  balcony,  but  spoken  openly  in  the 
presence  of  her  attendants  and  vassals,  there  is 
nothing  of  the  passionate  self-abandonment  of 
Juliet,  nor  of  the  artless  simplicity  of  Miranda, 
but  a consciousness  and  a tender  seriousness, 
approaching  to  solemnity,  which  are  not  less 
touching — 

• “Romeo  and  Juliet,”  Act  II,  scene  2. 


26 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I stand, 

Such  as  I am:  though  for  myself  alone 
I would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish 
To  wish  myself  much  better;  yet,  for  you, 

I would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 

A thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich;  that  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 

I might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 

Exceed  account;  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something;  which  to  term  in  gross, 

Is  an  unlesson’d  girl,  unschool’d,  unpracticed; 

Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn;  and  happier  than  this, 

She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn; 

Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  converted.  But  now  I was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 

Queen  o’er  myself!  and  even  now,  but  now, 

This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 

Are  yours,  my  lord. 

We  must  also  remark  that  the  sweetness,  the 
solicitude,  the  subdued  fondness  which  she  after- 
wards displays  relative  to  the  letter,  are  as  true 
to  the  softness  of  her  sex  as  the  generous  self- 
denial  with  which  she  urges  the  departure  of 
Bassanio  (having  first  given  him  a husband’s  right 
over  herself  and  all  her  countless  wealth)  is  con- 
sistent with  a reflecting  mind,  and  a spirit  at  once 
tender,  reasonable,  and  magnanimous. 

It  is  not  only  in  the  trial  scene  that  Portia’s 
acuteness,  eloquence,  and  lively  intelligence  are 
revealed  to  us;  they  are  displayed  in  the  first  in- 
stance, and  kept  up  consistently  to  the  end.  Her 
reflections,  arising  from  the  most  usual  aspects 
of  nature  and  from  the  commonest  incidents  of 


Portia. 


27 


life,  are  in  such  a poetical  spirit,  and  are  at  the 
same  time  so  pointed,  so  profound,  that  they  have 
passed  into  familiar  and  daily  application  with 
all  the  force  of  proverbs — 

If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do, 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men’s  cottages  princes’ 
palaces. 

I can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done, 
than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teaching. 

The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 

When  neither  is  attended;  and  I think 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 

When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a musician  than  the  wren. 

How  many  things  by  season  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection! 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  its  beams! 

So  shines  a good  deed  in  a naughty  world. 

A substitute  shines  as  brightly  as  a king, 

Until  a king  be  by;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters. 


Her  reflections  on  the  friendship  between  her 
husband  and  Antonio  are  as  full  of  deep  mean- 
ing as  of  tenderness;  and  her  portrait  of  a youn 
coxcomb,  in  the  same  scene,  is  touched  with 
truth  and  spirit  which  show  with  what  a keen 
observing  eye  she  has  looked  upon  men  and 
things — 


I’ll  hold  thee  any  wager, 

When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 

I’ll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 

And  wear  my  dagger  with  a braver  grace; 

And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy 
With  a reed  voice;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 


50  OQ 


28  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Into  a manly  stride;  and  speak  of  frays 

Like  a fine  bragging  youth;  and  tell  quaint  lies— 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died; 

I could  not  do  with  all:  then  I’ll  repent, 

And  wish  for  all  that,  that  I had  not  killed  them; 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I’ll  tell, 

That  men  shall  swear  I have  discontinued  school 
Above  a twelvemonth! 

And  in  the  description  of  her  various  suitors* 
in  the  first  scene  with  Nerissa,  what  infinite 
power,  wit,  and  vivacity!  She  half  checks  herself 
as  she  is  about  to  give  the  reins  to  her  sportive 
humor:  “In  truth,  I know  it  is  a sin  to  be  a 
mocker.”  But  if  it  carries  her  away,  it  is  so  per- 
fectly good-natured,  so  temperately  bright,  so 
lady-like,  it  is  ever  without  offense;  and,  so  far, 
most  unlike  the  satirical,  poignant,  unsparing  wit 
of  Beatrice,  “misprising  what  she  looks  on.”  In 
fact,  I can  scarce  conceive  a greater  contrast  than 
between  the  vivacity  of  Portia  and  the  vivacity  of 
Beatrice.  Portia,  with  all  her  airy  brilliance,  is 
supremely  soft  and  dignified;  everything  she  says 
or  does  displays  her  capability  for  profound 
thought  and  feeling  as  well  as  her  lively  and 
romantic  disposition;  and  as  I have  seen  in  an 
Italian  garden  a fountain  flinging  round  its 
wreaths  of  showery  light,  while  the  many-colored 
Iris  hung  brooding  above  it,  in  its  calm  and  soul- 
felt  glory;  so  in  Portia  the  wit  is  ever  kept  sub- 
ordinate to  the  poetry,  and  we  still  feel  the  tender, 
the  intellectual,  and  the  imaginative  part  of  the 
character,  as  superior  to,  and  presiding  over,  its 
spirit  and  vivacity. 

In  the  last  act,  Shylock  and  his  machinations 


Portia. 


29 


being  dismissed  from  our  thoughts,  and  the  rest 
of  the  dramatis  persona  assembled  together  at 
Belmont,  all  our  interest  and  all  our  attention 
are  rivetted  on  Portia,  and  the  conclusion  leaves 
the  most  delightful  impression  on  the  fancy.  The 
playful  equivoque  of  the  rings,  the  sportive  tricks 
she  puts  on  her  husband,  and  her  thorough  en- 
joyment of  the  jest,  which  she  checks  just  as  it 
is  proceeding  beyond  the  bounds  of  propriety, 
show  how  little  she  was  displeased  by  the  sacrifice 
of  her  gift,  and  are  all  consistent  with  her  bright 
and  buoyant  spirit.  In  conclusion,  when  Portia 
invites  her  company  to  enter  her  palace  to  refresh 
themselves  after  their  travels,  and  talk  over  “these 
events  at  full,”  the  imagination,  unwilling  to  lose 
sight  of  the  brilliant  group,  follows  them  in  gay 
procession  from  the  lovely  moonlight  garden  to 
marble  halls  and  princely  revels,  to  splendor  and 
festive  mirth,  to  love  and  happiness! 

Many  women  have  possessed  many  of  those 
qualities  which  render  Portia  so  delightful.  She 
is  in  herself  a piece  of  reality,  in  whose  possible 
existence  we  have  no  doubt:  and  yet  a human 
being,  in  whom  the  moral,  intellectual  and  sen- 
tient faculties  should  be  so  exquisitely  blended 
and  proportioned  to  each  other — and  these  again 
in  harmony  with  all  outward  aspects  and  influ- 
ences— probably  never  existed;  certainly,  could 
not  now  exist.  A woman  constituted  like  Portia, 
and  placed  in  this  age  and  in  the  actual  state  of 
society,  would  find  society  armed  against  her;  and 
instead  of  being  like  Portia,  a gracious,  happy, 
beloved,  and  loving  creature,  would  be  a victim, 
immolated  in  fire  to  that  multitudinous  Moloch 


30  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

termed  Opinion.  With  her,  the  world  without 
would  be  at  war  with  the  world  within:  in  the 
perpetual  strife,  either  her  nature  would  “be  sub- 
dued to  the  element  it  worked  in,”  and,  bend- 
ing to  a necessity  it  could  neither  escape  nor 
approve,  lose  at  last  something  of  its  original 
brightness,  or  otherwise — a perpetual  spirit  of 
resistance  cherished  as  a safeguard,  might  per- 
haps in  the  end  destroy  the  equipoise;  firmness 
would  become  pride  and  self-assurance,  and  the 
soft,  sweet,  feminine  texture  of  the  mind  settle 
into  rigidity.  Is  there,  then,  no  sanctuary  for 
such  a mind?  Where  shall  it  find  a refuge  from 
the  world?  Where  seek  for  strength  against 
itself?  Where,  but  in  heaven? 

Camiola,  in  Massingers  “Maid  of  Honor,”  is 
said  to  emulate  Portia;  and  the  real  story  of 
Camiola  (for  she  is  an  historical  personage)  is  very 
beautiful.  She  was  a lady  of  Messina,  who  lived 
in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century;  and 
was  the  contemporary  of  Queen  Joanna,  of 
Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio.  It  fell  out  in  those  days 
that  Prince  Orlando,  of  Arragon,  the  younger 
brother  of  the  King  of  Sicily,  having  taken  the 
command  of  a naval  armament  against  the 
Neapolitans,  was  defeated,  wounded,  taken 
prisoner,  and  confined  by  Robert  of  Naples  (the 
father  of  Queen  Joanna)  in  one  of  his  strongest 
castles.  As  the  prince  had  distinguished  himself 
by  his  enmity  to  the  Neapolitans  and  by  many 
exploits  against  them,  his  ransom  was  fixed  at 
an  exorbitant  sum,  and  his  captivity  was  un- 
usually severe;  while  the  King  of  Sicily,  who  had 
some  cause  of  displeasure  against  his  brother,  and 


Portia. 


31 


imputed  to  him  the  defeat  of  his  armament,  re- 
fused either  to  negotiate  for  his  release  or  to  pay 
the  ransom  demanded. 

Orlando,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  fine  person 
and  reckless  valor,  was  apparently  doomed  to 
languish  away  the  rest  of  his  life  in  a dungeon, 
when  Camiola  Turinga,  a rich  Sicilian  heiress, 
devoted  the  half  of  her  fortune  to  release  him. 
But  as  such  an  action  might  expose  her  to  evil 
comments,  she  made  it  a condition  that  Orlando 
should  marry  her.  The  prince  gladly  accepted 
the  terms,  and  sent  her  the  contract  of  marriage, 
signed  by  his  hand;  but  no*  sooner  was  he  at 
liberty  than  he  refused  to  fulfil  it,  and  even 
denied  all  knowledge  of  his  benefactress. 

Camiola  appealed  to  the  tribunal  of  state,  pro- 
duced the  written  contract,  and  described  the 
obligations  she  had  heaped  on  this  ungrateful  and 
ungenerous  man:  sentence  was  given  against  him, 
and  he  was  adjudged  to  Camiola,  not  only  as  her 
rightful  husband,  but  as  a property  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  war  in  that  age,  she  had  pur- 
chased with  her  gold.  The  day  of  marriage  was 
fixed;  Orlando  presented  himself  with  a splendid 
retinue:  Camiola  also  appeared,  decorated  as  for 
her  bridal;  but  instead  of  bestowing  her  hand  on 
the  recreant,  she  reproached  him  in  the  presence 
of  all  with  his  breach  of  faith,  declared  her  utter 
contempt  for  his  baseness,  and  then  freely  be- 
stowing on  him  the  sum  paid  for  his  ransom,  as 
a gift  worthy  of  his  mean  soul,  she  turned  away, 
and  dedicated  herself  and  her  heart  to  heaven.  In 
this  resolution  she  remained  inflexible,  though 
the  king  and  all  the  court  united  in  entreaties 


32  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

to  soften  her.  She  took  the  veil;  and  Orlando, 
henceforth  regarded  as  one  who  had,  stained  his 
knighthood  and  violated  his  faith,  passed  the  rest 
of  his  life  as  a dishonored  man,  and  died  in 
obscurity. 

Camiola,  in  “The  Maid  of  Honor,”  is,  like 
Portia,  a wealthy  heiress,  surrounded  by  suitors, 
and  “queen  o’er  herself:”  the  character  is  con- 
structed upon  the  same  principles,  as  great  intel- 
lectual power,  magnanimity  of  temper,  and  femi- 
nine tenderness;  but  not  only  do  pain  and  dis- 
quiet, and  the  change  induced  by  unkind  and 
inauspicious  influences,  enter  into  this  sweet 
picture  to  mar  and  cloud  its  happy  beauty,  but 
the  portrait  itself  may  be  pronounced  out  of  draw- 
ing; for  Massinger  apparently  had  not  sufficient 
delicacy  of  sentiment  to  work  out  his  own  con- 
ception of  the  character  with  perfect  consistency. 
In  his  adaptation  of  the  story  he  represents  the 
mutual  love  of  Orlando  and  Camiola  as  existing 
previous  to  the  captivity  of  the  former,  and  on 
his  part  declared  with  many  vows  of  eternal  faith; 
yet  she  requires  a written  contract  of  marriage 
before  she  liberates  him.  It  will  perhaps  be  said 
that  she  has  penetrated  his  weakness,  and  antici- 
pates his  falsehood.  Miserable  excuse!— how 
could  a magnanimous  woman  love  a man  whose 
falsehood  she  believes  but  possible? — or  loving 
him,  how  could  she  deign  to  secure  herself  by 
such  means  against  the  consequences?  Shak- 
speare  and  Nature  never  committed  such  a 
solecism.  Camiola  doubts  before  she  has  been 
wronged;  the  firmness  and  assurance  in  herself 
border  on  harshness.  What  in  Portia  is  the  gentle 


S.’iakspeare's  Heroines  / 


Portia. 


S3 


wisdom  of  a noble  nature  appears  in  Camiola  too 
much  a spirit  of  calculation;  it  savors  a little  of 
the  counting-house.  As  Portia  is  the  heiress  of 
Belmont,  and  Camiola  a merchants  daughter,  the 
distinction  may  be  proper  and  characteristic,  but 
it  is  not  in  favor  of  Camiola.  The  contrast  may 
be  thus  illustrated — 

Camiola.  You  have  heard  of  Bertoldo’s  capacity,  and  the 
king’s  neglect,  the  greatness  of  his  ransom;  fifty  thousand 
crowns,  Adorni!  Two  parts  of  my  estate ! Yet  I so  love  the 
gentleman,  for  to  you  I will  confess  my  weakness,  that  I 
purpose  now,  when  he  is  forsaken  by  the  king  and  his  own 
hopes,  to  ransom  him. 

“Maid  of  Honor,”  Act  III. 

Portia.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew? 

Bassanio.  For  me— three  thousand  ducats. 

Portia.  What!  no  morel 
Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond, 

Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 

Before  a friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a hair  thro’  my  Bassanio’s  fault, 

—You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  o’er. 

“Merchant  of  Venice.” 

Camiola,  who  is  a Sicilian,  might  as  well  have 
been  born  at  Amsterdam:  Portia  could  only  have 
existed  in  Italy.  Portia  is  profound  as  she  is 
brilliant;  Camiola  is  sensible  and  sententious:  she 
asserts  her  dignity  very  successfully;  but  we  can- 
not for  a moment  imagine  Portia  as  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  asserting  hers.  The  idiot  Sylli, 
in  “The  Maid  of  Honor,”  who  follows  Camiola 
like  one  of  the  deformed  dwarfs  of  old  time,  is 
an  intolerable  violation  of  taste  and  propriety, 
and  it  sensibly  lowers  our  impression  of  the  prin- 
cipal character.  Shakspeare  would  never  have 


34 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

placed  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  in  constant  and 
immediate  approximation  with  such  a woman  as 
Portia. 

Lastly,  the  charm  of  the  poetical  coloring  is 
wholly  wanting  in  Camiola,  so  that  when  she  is 
placed  in  contrast  with  the  glowing  eloquence, 
the  luxuriant  grace,  the  buoyant  spirit  of  Portia, 
the  effect  is  somewhat  that  of  coldness  and  form- 
ality. Notwithstanding  the  dignity  and  the 
beauty  of  Massinger’s  delineation,  and  the  noble 
self-devotion  of  Camiola,  which  I acknowledge 
and  admire,  the  two  characters  will  admit  of  no 
comparison  as  sources  of  contemplation  and 
pleasure. 

* * * * * * * 

It  is  observable  that  something  of  the  inteh 
lectual  brilliance  of  Portia  is  reflected  on  the 
other  female  characters  of  “The  Merchant  of 
Venice,”  so  as  to  preserve  in  the  midst  of  con- 
trast a certain  harmony  and  keeping.  Thus 
J essica,  though  properly  kept  subordinate,  is 
certainly — 

A most  beautiful  Pagan— a most  sweet  Jew. 


She  cannot  be  called  a sketch — or  if  a sketch,  she 
is  like  one  of  those  dashed  off  in  glowing  colors 
from  the  rainbow  palette  of  a Eubens;  she  has 
a rich  tinge  of  orientalism  shed  over  her,  worthy 
of  her  eastern  origin.  In  any  other  play,  and 
in  any  other  companionship  than  that  of  the 
matchless  Portia,  Jessica  would  make  a very  beau- 
tiful heroine  of  herself.  Nothing  can  be  more 
poetically,  more  classically  fanciful  and  elegant, 


Portia. 


35 


than  the  scenes  between  her  and  Lorenzo— the 
celebrated  moonlight  dialogue,  for  instance,  which 
we  all  have  by  heart.  Every  sentiment  she  utters 
interests  us  for  her — more  particularly  her  bash- 
ful self-reproach  when  flying  in  the  disguise  of 
a page — 

I am  glad  ’tis  night,  you  do  not  look  upon  me, 

For  I am  much  asham’d  of  my  exchange; 

But  love  Is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit; 

For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a boy. 


And  the  enthusiastic  and  generous  testimony  to 
the  superior  graces  and  accomplishments  of  Portia 
comes  with  a peculiar  grace  from  her  lips — 

Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 

And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 


We  should  not,  however,  easily  pardon  her  for 
cheating  her  father  with  so  much  indifference, 
but  for  the  perception  that  Shylock  values  his 
daughter  far  beneath  his  wealth — 

I would  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the 
jewels  in  her  ear!— would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and 
the  ducats  in  her  coffin. 

Nerissa  is  a good  specimen  of  a common  genus 
of  characters:  she  is  a clever,  confidential  wait- 
ing-woman, who  has  caught  a little  of  her  lady’s 
elegance  and  romance;  she  affects  to  be  lively  and 
B 


36  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

sententious,  falls  in  love,  and  makes  her  favor 
conditional  on  the  fortune  of  the  caskets,  and 
in  short  mimics  her  mistress  with  good  emphasis 
and  discretion.  Nerissa  and  the  gay,  talkative 
Gratiano  are  as  well  matched  as  the  incompara- 
ble Portia  and  her  magnificent  and  captivating 
lover. 


ISABELLA. 


THE  character  of  Isabella,  considered  as  a 
poetical  delineation,  is  less  mixed  than 
that  of  Portia;  and  the  dissimilarity  be- 
tween the  two  appears,  at  first  view,  so  complete, 
that  we  can  scarce  believe  that  the  same  elements 
enter  into  the  composition  of  each.  Yet  so  it  is: 
they  are  portrayed  as  equally  wise,  gracious, 
virtuous,  fair  and  young;  we  perceive  in  both  the 
same  exalted  principle  and  firmness  of  character, 
the  same  depth  of  reflection  and  persuasive  elo- 
quence, the  same  self-denying  generosity  and 
capability  of  strong  affections;  and  we  must 
wonder  at  that  marvelous  power  by  which  quali- 
ties and  endowments,  essentially  and  closely 
allied,  are  so  combined  and  modified  as  to  pro- 
duce a result  altogether  different.  “0  Nature! 
0 Shakspeare!  which  of  ye  drew  from  the  other ?” 

Isabella  is  distinguished  from  Portia,  and 
strongly  individualized  by  a certain  moral 
grandeur,  a saintly  grace,  something  of  vestal 
dignity  and  purity,  which  render  her  less  attrac- 
tive and  more  imposing;  she  is  “severe  in  youth- 
ful beauty/’  and  inspires  a reverence  which  would 
have  placed  her  beyond  the  daring  of  one  unholy 
wish  or  thought,  except  in  such  a man  as 
Angelo — 


O cunning  enemy!  that  to  catch  a saint 
With  saints  doth  bait  thy  hook. 

37 


38 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 


This  impression  of  her  character  is  conveyed 
from  the  very  first,  when  Lucio,  the  libertine 
jester,  whose  coarse,  audacious  wit  checks  at  every 
feather,  thus  expresses  his  respect  for  her — 

I would  not— though  ’tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest, 

Tongue  far  from  heart— play  with  all  virgins  so. 

I hold  you  as  a thing  enskyed  and  sainted, 

By  your  renouncement,  and  immortal  spirit, 

And  to  he  talked  with  in  sincerity, 

As  with  a saint. 


A strong  distinction  between  Isabella  and 
Portia  is  produced  by  the  circumstances  in  which 
they  are  respectively  placed.  Portia  is  a high- 
born heiress,  “lord  of  a fair  mansion,  master  of 
her  servants,  queen  o'er  herself;”  easy  and  de- 
cided, as  one  born  to  command,  and  used  to  it. 
Isabella  has  also  the  innate  dignity  which  renders 
her  “queen  o'er  herself,”  but  she  has  lived  far 
from  the  world  and  its  pomps  and  pleasures;  she 
is  one  of  a consecrated  sisterhood — a novice  of 
St.  Clare;  the  power  to  command  obedience  and 
to  confer  happiness  are  to  her  unknown.  Portia 
is  a splendid  creature,  radiant  with  confidence, 
hope,  and  joy.  She  is  like  the  orange  tree,  hung 
at  once  with  golden  fruit  and  luxuriant  flowers, 
which  has  expanded  into  bloom  and  fragrance 
beneath  favoring  skies,  and  has  been  nursed  into 
beauty  by  the  sunshine  and  the  dews  of  heaven. 
Isabella  is  like  a stately  and  graceful  cedar,  tow- 
ering on  some  Alpine  cliff,  unbowed  and  un- 
scathed amid  the  storm.  She  gives  us  the  impres- 
sion of  one  who  has  passed  under  the  ennobling 


Isabella. 


39 


discipline  of  suffering  and  self-denial:  a melancholy 
charm  tempers  the  natural  vigor  of  her  mind:  her 
spirit  seems  to  stand  upon  an  eminence,  and  look 
down  upon  the  world  as  if  already  enskyed  and 
sainted;  and  yet,  when  brought  in  contact  with 
that  world  which  she  inwardly  despises,  she 
shrinks  back  with  all  the  timidity  natural  to  her 
cloistral  education. 

This  union  of  natural  grace  and  grandeur 
with  the  habits  and  sentiments  of  a recluse — of 
austerity  of  life  with  gentleness  of  manner — of  in- 
flexible moral  principles  with  humility  and  even 
bashfulness  of  deportment,  is  delineated  with  the 
most  beautiful  and  wonderful  consistency.  Thus, 
when  her  brother1  sends  to  her  to  entreat  her 
mediation,  her  first  feeling  is  fear,  and  a distrust 
in  her  own  powers — 

Alas!  what  poor  ability’s  In  me 

To  do  him  good? 

Lucio.  Essay  the  power  you  have. 

Isabella.  My  power,  alas!  I doubt. 


In  the  first  scene  with  Angelo  she  seems  divided 
between  her  love  for  her  brother  and  her  sense  of 
his  fault;  between  her  self-respect  and  her  maid- 
enly bashfulness.  She  begins  with  a kind  of  hesi- 
tation, “at  war  Twixt  will  and  will  not:”  and 
when  Angelo  quotes  the  law,  and  insists  on  the 
justice  of  his  sentence  and  the  responsibility  of 
his  station,  her  native  sense  of  moral  rectitude 
and  severe  principles  takes  the  lead,  and  she 
shrinks  back — 


40  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

O just  but  severe  law! 

I had  a brother  then— Heaven  keep  your  honor! 

[ Retiring . 

Excited  and  encouraged  by  Lucio,  and  sup- 
ported by  her  own  natural  spirit,  she  returns  to 
the  charge — she  gains  energy  and  self-possession 
as  she  proceeds,  grows  more  earnest  and  passionate 
from  the  difficulty  she  encounters,  and  displays 
that  eloquence  and  power  of  reasoning  for  which 
we  had  been  already  prepared  by  Claudio’s  first 
allusion  to  her — 

In  her  youth 

There  is  a prone  and  speechless  dialect, 

Such  as  moves  men;  besides,  she  has  prosperous  art, 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 

And  well  she  can  persuade. 

It  is  a curious  coincidence  that  Isabella,  exhort- 
ing Angelo  to  mercy,  avails  herself  of  precisely 
the  same  arguments  and  insists  on  the  self-same 
topics  which  Portia  addresses  to  Shylock  in  her 
celebrated  speech;  but  how  beautifully  and  how 
truly  is  the  distinction  marked!  how  like,  and  yet 
how  unlike!  Portia’s  eulogy  on  mercy  is  a piece 
of  heavenly  rhetoric;  it  falls  on  the  ear  with  a 
solemn,  measured  harmony;  it  is  the  voice  of  a 
descended  angel  addressing  an  inferior  nature: 
if  not  premeditated,  it  is  at  least  part  of  a pre- 
concerted scheme;  while  Isabella’s  pleadings  are 
poured  from  the  abundance  of  her  heart  in  broken 
sentences,  and  with  the  artless  vehemence  of  one 
who  feels  that  life  and  death  hang  upon  her 
appeal.  This  will  be  best  understood  by  placing 
the  corresponding  passages  in  immediate  com- 
parison with  each  other — 


Isabella. 


41 


Portia . The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain’d, 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  dew  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath;  it  is  twice  blessed; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes; 

’Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway— 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 

Isabella.  Well,  believe  this, 

No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  ’longs, 

Not  the  king’s  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 

The  marshal’s  truncheon,  nor  the  judge’s  robe. 
Become  them  with  one-half  so  good  a grace 
As  mercy  does. 

Portia.  Consider  this— 

That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation.  We  do  pray  for  mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 

Isabella.  Alas!  alas! 

Why  all  the  souls  that  are  were  forfeit  once; 

And  He,  that  might  the  ’vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy.  How  would  you  be, 

If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are?  O,  think  on  that; 

And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made! 


The  beautiful  things  which  Isabella  is  made  to 
utter  have,  like  the  sayings  of  Portia,  become 
proverbial:  but  in  spirit  and  character  they  are  as 
distinct  as  are  the  two  women.  In  all  that  Portia 
says  we  confess  the  power  of  a rich  poetical 
imagination,  blended  with  a quick  practical  spirit 
of  observation,  familiar  with  the  surfaces  of 
things;  while  there  is  a profound  yet  simple 
morality,  a depth  of  religious  feeling,  a touch  of 


42 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

melancholy,  in  Isabella’s  sentiments,  and  some- 
thing earnest  and  authoritative  in  the  manner 
and  expression,  as  though  they  had  grown  up  in 
her  mind  from  long  and  deep  meditation  in  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  her  convent  cell — 

O,  it  is  excellent 

To  have  a giant’s  strength;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a giant. 

Could  great  men  thunder 

As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne’er  be  quiet; 

For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder;  nothing  but  thunder. 
Merciful  Heaven! 

Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt 
Split’st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak 
Than  the  soft  myrtle.  O,  but  man,  proud  man! 

Drest  in  a little  brief  authority, 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he’s  most  assur’d, 

His  glassy  essence,  like  an  angry  ape, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 

As  make  the  angels  weep. 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints,  ’tis  wit  in  them; 

But  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

That  in  the  captain’s  but  a choleric  word, 

Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Authority,  although  it  err  like  others, 

Hath  yet  a kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 

That  skins  the  vice  o’  the  top.  Go  to  your  bosom; 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That’s  like  my  brother’s  fault;  if  it  confess 
A natural  guiltiness  such  as  his  is, 

Let  it  not  sound  a thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother’s  life. 

Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 

But  graciously  to  know  I am  no  better. 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension; 

And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon, 

In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a pang  as  great 
As  when  a giant  dies! 


Isabella. 


43 


’Tis  not  impossible 

But  one,  the  wicked’st  caitiff  on  the  ground, 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute 
As  Angelo:  even  so  may  Angelo, 

In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms, 

Be  an  arch  villain. 


Her  fine  powers  of  reasoning,  and  that  natural 
uprightness  and  purity  which  no  sophistry  can 
warp,  and  no  allurement  betray,  are  further  dis- 
played in  the  second  scene  with  Angelo — 

Angelo.  What  would  you  do? 

Isabella.  As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself; 

That  is,  were  I under  the  terms  of  death, 

The  impression  of  keen  whips  I’d  wear  as  rubies, 

And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a bed 

That,  longing,  I have  been  sick  for,  ere  I’d  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

Angelo.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isabella.  And  ’twere  the  cheaper  way: 

Better  it  were  a brother  died  at  once, 

Than  that  a sister,  by  redeeming  him, 

Should  die  for  ever. 

Angelo.  Were  not  you  then  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slandered  so? 

Isabella.  Ignominy  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon 
Are  of  two  houses:  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

Angelo.  You  seem’d  of  late  to  make  the  law  a tyrant; 
And  rather  prov’d  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A merriment  than  a vice. 

Isabella.  O,  pardon  me,  my  lord;  it  oft  falls  out, 

To  have  what  we  would  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean: 

I something  do  excuse  the  thing  of  hate, 

For  his  advantage  that  I dearly  love. 


Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  play  we  have 
another  instance  of  that  rigid  sense  of  justice 
which  is  a prominent  part  of  Isabella’s  character, 


44  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  almost  silences  her  earnest  intercession  for 
her  brother,  when  his  fault  is  placed  between  her 
plea  and  her  conscience.  The  Duke  condemns 
the  villain  Angelo  to  death,  and  his  wife  Mariana 
entreats  Isabella  to  plead  for  him — 

Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part, 

Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 
I’ll  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 


Isabella  remains  silent  and  Mariana  reiterates 
her  prayer — 

Mariana.  Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me, 

Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing;  I’ll  speak  all! 

O Isabel!  will  you  not  lend  a knee? 

Isabella.,  thus  urged,  breaks  silence  and  appeals 
to  the  Duke,  not  with  supplication,  or  persuasion, 
but  with  grave  argument,  and  a kind  of  dignified 
humility  and  conscious  power,  which  are  finely 
characteristic  of  the  individual  woman — 

Most  bounteous  sir, 

Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn’d, 

As  if  my  brother  liv’d;  I partly  think 
A due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds 
Till  he  did  look  on  me;  since  it  is  so, 

Let  him  not  die.  My  brother  had  but  justice, 

In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died. 

For  Angelo. 

His  art  did  not  o’ertake  his  bad  intent, 

That  perish’d  by  the  way:  thoughts  are  no  subjects, 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 


In  this  instance,  as  in  the  one  before  mentioned, 
Isabella’s  conscientiousness  is  overcome  by  the 
only  sentiment  which  ought  to  temper  justice 


Isabella.  45 

into  mercy,  the  power  of  affection  and  sym- 
pathy. 

Isabella's  confession  of  the  general  frailty  of 
her  sex  has  a peculiar  softness,  beauty,  and 
propriety.  She  admits  the  imputation  with  all 
the  sympathy  of  woman  for  woman;  yet  with  all 
the  dignity  of  one  who  felt  her  own  superiority  to 
the  weakness  she  acknowledges — 

Angelo.  Nay,  women  are  frail,  too. 

Isabella.  Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 

Women!  help  heaven!  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.  Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail; 

For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 

And  credulous  to  false  prints. 

Nor  should  we  fail  to  remark  the  deeper  in- 
terest which  is  thrown  round  Isabella  by  one  part 
of  her  character,  which  is  betrayed  rather  than 
exhibited  in  the  progress  of  the  action;  and  for 
which  we  are  not  at  first  prepared,  though  it  is  so 
perfectly  natural.  It  is  the  strong  undercurrent 
of  passion  and  enthusiasm  flowing  beneath  this 
calm  and  saintly  self-possession,  it  is  the  capacity 
for  high  feeling  and  generous  and  strong  indig- 
nation veiled  beneath  the  sweet  austere  composure 
of  the  religious  recluse,  which,  by  the  very  force 
of  contrast,  powerfully  impress  the  imagination. 
As  we  see  in  real  life  that  where,  from  some  ex- 
ternal or  habitual  cause,  a strong  control  is  exer- 
cised over  naturally  quick  feelings  and  an  im- 
petuous temper,  they  display  themselves  with  a 
proportionate  vehemence  when  that  restraint  is 
removed;  so  the  very  violence  with  which  her 
passion  bursts  forth,  when  opposed  or  under  the 


46 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

influence  of  strong  excitement  is  admirably 
characteristic. 

Thus  in  her  exclamation,  when  she  first  allows 
herself  to  perceive  Angelo’s  vile  design — 


Isabella.  Ha!  little  honor  to  be  much  believ’d, 

And  most  pernicious  purpose!— seeming!— seeming! 

I will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo!  look  for  it! 

Sign  me  a present  pardon  for  my  brother, 

Or,  with  an  outstretch’d  throat,  I’ll  tell  the  world 
Aloud  what  man  thou  art! 


And  again,  when  she  finds  that  the  “outward 
sainted  deputy”  has  deceived  her — 

O,  I will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes! 
Unhappy  Claudio!  wretched  Isabel! 

Injurious  world!  most  damned  Angelo! 


She  places  at  first  a strong  and  high-souled  con- 
fidence in  her  brother’s  fortitude  and  mag- 
nanimity, judging  him  by  her  own  lofty  spirit — 

I’ll  to  my  brother; 

Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 

Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a mind  of  honor, 

That  had  he  twenty  hearts  to  tender  down 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he’d  yield  them  up, 

Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorr’d  pollution. 


But  when  her  trust  in  his  honor  is  deceived  by 
his  momentary  weakness,  her  scorn  has  a bitter- 
ness and  her  indignation  a force  of  expression 
almose  fearful;  and  both  are  carried  to  an  ex- 
treme, which  is  perfectly  in  character — 


Isabella. 


47 


O faithless  coward!  O dishonest  wretch! 

Wilt  thou  be  made  a man  out  of  my  vice? 

Is’t  not  a kind  of  incest  to  take  life 

From  thine  own  sister’s  shame?  What  should  I think? 

Heaven  shield  my  mother  play’d  my  father  fair! 

For  such  a warped  slip  of  wilderness 

Ne’er  issued  from  his  blood.  Take  my  defiance; 

Die!  perish!  Might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed. 

I’ll  pray  a thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 

No  word  to  save  thee. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  with  Claudio  is  inex- 
pressibly grand  in  the  poetry  and  the  sentiment: 
and  the  entire  play  abounds  in  those  passages  and 
phrases  which  must  have  become  trite  from 
familiar  and  constant  use  and  abuse,  if  their 
wisdom  and  unequalled  beauty  did  not  invest 
them  with  an  immortal  freshness  and  vigor,  and 
a perpetual  charm,. 

The  story  of  “Measure  for  Measure^  is  a tradi- 
tion of  great  antiquity,  of  which  there  are  several 
versions,  narrative  and  dramatic.  A contemptible 
tragedy,  the  “Promos  and  Cassandra”  of  George 
Whetstone,  is  supposed,  from  various  coincidences, 
to  have  furnished  Shakspeare  with  the  groundwork 
of  the  play;  but  the  character  of  Isabella  is,  in  con- 
ception and  execution,  all  his  own.  The  commen- 
tators have  collected  with  infinite  industry  all  the 
sources  of  the  plot;  but  to  the  grand  creation  of 
Isabella  they  award  either  silence  or  worse  than 
silence.  Johnson,  and  the  rest  of  the  black-letter 
crew,  pass  her  over  without  a word.  One  critic,  a 
lady  critic  too,  whose  name  I will  be  so  merciful  as 
to  suppress,  treats  Isabella  as  a coarse  vixen.  Haz- 
litt,  with  that  strange  perversion  of  sentiment  and 


48  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

want  of  taste  which  sometimes  mingle  with  his 
piercing  and  powerful  intellect,  dismisses  Isabella 
with  a slight  remark,  that  “we  are  not  greatly 
enamored  of  her  rigid  chastity,  nor  can  feel 
much  confidence  in  the  virtue  that  is  sublimely 
good  at  another’s  expense.”  What  shall  we 
answer  to  such  criticism?  Upon  what  ground 
can  we  read  the  play  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
doubt  the  angel-purity  of  Isabella,  or  contemplate 
her  possible  lapse  from  virtue?  Such  gratuitous 
mistrust  is  here  a sin  against  the  light  of  heaven — 

Having  waste  ground  enough 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  santuary, 

And  pitch  our  evils  there? 

Professor  Richardson  is  more  just,  and  truly 
sums  up  her  character  as  ‘“amiable,  pious,  sen- 
sible, resolute,  determined,  and  eloquent;”  but  his 
remarks  are  rather  superficial. 

Schlegel’s  observations  are  also  brief  and  gen- 
eral, and  in  no  way  distinguish  Isabella  from 
many  other  characters;  neither  did  his  plan  allow 
him  to  be  more  minute.  Of  the  play  altogether, 
he  observes  very  beautifully  “that  the  title  ‘Meas- 
ure for  Measure’  is  in  reality  a misnomer,  the 
sense  of  the  whole  being  properly  the  triumph 
of  mercy  over  strict  justice;”  but  it  is  also  true 
that  there  is  “an  original  sin  in  the  nature  of  the 
subject,  which  prevents  us  from  taking  a cordial 
interest  in  it.”*  Of  all  the  characters,  Isabella 
alone  has  our  sympathy.  But  though  she  tri- 
umphs in  the  conclusion,  her  triumph  is  not  pro- 
duced in  a pleasing  manner.  There  are  too  many 

• “Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. 


Isabella. 


49 


disguises  and  tricks,  too  many  “by-paths  and  in- 
direct crooked  ways,”  to  conduct  us  to  the  natural 
and  foreseen  catastrophe,  which  the  Duke’s  pres- 
ence throughout  renders  inevitable.  This  Duke 
seems  to  have  a predilection  for  bringing  about 
justice  by  a most  unjustifiable  succession  of  false- 
hoods and  counterplots.  He  really  deserves 
Lucio’s  satirical  designation,  who  somewhere 
styles  him  “The  Fantastical  Duke  of  Dark  Cor- 
ners.” But  Isabella  is  ever  consistent  in  her  pure 
and  upright  simplicity,  and  in  the  midst  of  this 
simulation,  expresses  a characteristic  disapproba- 
tion of  the  part  she  is  made  to  play — 


To  speak  so  indirectly  I am  loth: 
I would  say  the  truth?  * 


She  yields  to  the  supposed  Friar  with  a kind 
of  forced  docility,  because  her  situation  as  a re- 
ligious novice,  and  his  station,  habit,  and  author- 
ity, as  her  spiritual  director,  demand  this  sacrifice. 
In  the  end  we  are  made  to  feel  that  her  transition 
from  the  convent  to  the  throne  has  but  placed 
this  noble  creature  in  her  natural  sphere;  for 
though  Isabella,  as  Duchess  of  Vienna,  could  not 
more  command  our  highest  reverence  than  Isabel 
the  novice  of  Saint  Clare,  yet  a wider  range  of 
usefulness  and  benevolence,  of  trial  and  action, 
was  better  suited  to  the  large  capacity,  the  ardent 
affections,  the  energetic  intellect  and  firm  prin- 
ciple of  such  a woman  as  Isabella,  than  the  walls 
of  a cloister.  The  philosophical  Duke  observes 
in  the  very  first  scene — 

• Act  IV,  scene  5. 


50  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 

But  to  fine  issues:  nor  Nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 

But  like  a thrifty  goddess  she  determines, 

Herself  the  glory  of  a creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  use.* 

This  profound  and  beautiful  sentiment  is  illus- 
trated in  the  character  and  destiny  of  Isabella. 
She  says,  of  herself,  that  “she'  has  spirit  to  act 
whatever  her  heart  approves;”  and  what  her  heart 
approves  we  know. 

In  the  convent  (which  may  stand  here  poeti- 
cally for  any  narrow  and  obscure  situation  in 
which  such  a woman  might  be  placed)  Isabella 
would  not  have  been  unhappy,  but  happiness 
would  have  been  the  result  of  an  effort,  or  of  the 
concentration  of  her  great  mental  powers  to  some 
particular  purpose;  as  St.  Theresa’s  intellect,  en- 
thusiasm, tenderness,  restless  activity,  and  burn- 
ing eloquence,  governed  by  one  overpowering  sen- 
timent of  devotion,  rendered  her  the  most  extra- 
ordinary of  saints.  Isabella,  like  St.  Theresa, 
complains  that  the  rules  of  her  order  are  not 
sufficiently  severe,  and  from  the  same  cause, — that 
from  the  consciousness  of  strong  intellectual  and 
imaginative  power,  and  of  overflowing  sensibility, 
she  desires  a more  “strict  restraint,”  or,  from  the 
continual  involuntary  struggle  against  the  tram- 
mels imposed,  feels  its  necessity — 

Isabella.  And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges? 

Francisca.  Are  not  these  large  enough? 

Isabella.  Yes,  truly;  I speak,  not  as  desiring  more, 

But  rather  wishing  a more  strict  restraint 

Upon  the  sisterhood. 

* Use,  i.  e.,  usury,  interest. 


Isabella. 


51 


Such  women  as  Desdemona  and  Ophelia  would 
have  passed  their  lives  in  the  seclusion  of  a nun- 
nery without  wishing,  like  Isabella,  for  stricter 
bonds,  or  planning,  like  St.  Theresa,  the  reforma- 
tion of  their  order,  simply  because  any  restraint 
would  have  been  efficient,  as  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned. Isabella,  “dedicate  to  nothing  temporal,” 
might  have  found  resignation  through  self-gov- 
ernment, or  have  become  a religious  enthusiast; 
while  “place  and  greatness”  would  have  appeared 
to  her  strong  and  upright  mind  only  a more  ex- 
tended field  of  action,  a trust  and  a trial.  The 
mere  trappings  of  power  and  state,  the  gemmed 
coronal,  the  ermined  robe,  she  would  have  re- 
garded as  the  outward  emblems  of  her  earthly 
profession:  and  would  have  worn  them  with  as 
much  simplicity  as  her  novice’s  hood  and  scapu- 
lar: still,  under  whatever  guise  she  might  tread 
this  thorny  world,  the  same  “angel  of  light.” 


BEATRICE. 


SHAKSPEARE  has  exhibited  in  Beatrice  a 
spirited  and  faithful  portrait  of  the  fine  lady 
of  his  own  time.  The  deportment,  lan- 
guage, manners,  and  allusions  are  those  of  a par- 
ticular class  in  a particular  age;  but  the  individual 
and  dramatic  character  which  forms  the  ground- 
work is  strongly  discriminated,  and  being  taken 
from  general  nature,  belongs  to  every  age.  In 
Beatrice  high  intellect  and  high  animal  spirits 
meet,  and  excite  each  other  like  fire  and  air.  In 
her  wit  (which  is  brilliant  without  being  imagin- 
ative) there  is  a touch  of  insolence,  not  unfre- 
quent in  women  when  the  wit  predominates  over 
reflection  and  imagination.  In  her  temper,  too, 
there  is  a slight  infusion  of  the  termagant;  and 
her  satirical  humor  plays  with  such  an  unrespec- 
tive  levity  over  all  subjects  alike,  that  it  required 
a profound  knowledge  of  women  to  bring  such  a 
character  within  the  pale  of  our  sympathy.  But 
Beatrice,  though  wilful,  is  not  wayward;  she  is 
volatile,  not  unfeeling.  She  has  not  only  an  ex- 
uberance of  wit  and  gayoty,  but  of  heart,  of  soul, 
and  energy  of  spirit;  and  is  no  more  like  the  fine 
ladies  of  modern  comedy — whose  wit  consists  in  a 
temporary  allusion  or  a play  upon  words,  and 
whose  petulance  is  displayed  in  a toss  of  the  head, 
a flirt  of  the  fan,  or  a flourish  of  the  pocket-hand- 
52 


Beatrice.  53 

kerchief, — than  one  of  our  modem  dandies  is  like 
Sir  Philip  Sydney. 

In  Beatrice  Shakspeare  has  contrived  that  the 
poetry  of  the  character  shall  not  only  soften,  but 
heighten  its  comic  effect.  We  are  not  only  in- 
clined to  forgive  Beatrice  all  her  scornful  airs,  all 
her  biting  jests,  all  her  assumption  of  superiority; 
but  they  amuse  and  delight  us  the  more,  when  we 
find  her,  with  all  the  headlong  simplicity  of  a 
child,  falling  at  once  into  the  snare  laid  for  her 
affections;  when  we  see  her,  who  thought  a man 
of  God’s  making  not  good  enough  for  her,  who 
disdained  to  be  overmastered  by  “a  piece  of  valiant 
dust,”  stooping  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  vailing 
her  pround  spirit,  and  taming  her  wild  heart  to 
the  loving  hand  of  him  whom  she  had  scorned, 
flouted,  and  misused,  “past  the  endurance  of  a 
block.”  And  we  are  yet  more  completely  won 
by  her  generous  enthusiastic  attachment  to  her 
cousin.  When  the  father  of  Hero  believes  the 
tale  of  her  guilt;  when  Claudio,  her  lover,  with- 
out remorse  or  a lingering  doubt,  consigns  her 
to  shame;  when  the  Friar  remains  silent,  and  the 
generous  Benedick  himself  knows  not  what  to 
say,  Beatrice,  confident ' in  her  affections,  and 
guided  only  by  the  impulses  of  her  own  feminine 
heart,  sees  through  the  inconsistency,  the  impos- 
sibility of  the  charge,  and  exclaims,  without  a 
moment’s  hesitation — 

O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied! 

Schlegel,  in  his  remarks  on  the  play  of  “Much 
Ado  about  Nothing,”  has  given  us  an  amusing 
instance  of  that  sense  of  reality  with  which  we 


54  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

are  impressed  by  Shakspeare’s  characters*  He 
says  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  as  if  he  had  known 
them  personally,  that  the  exclusive  direction  of 
their  pointed  raillery  against  each  other  “is  a 
proof  of  a growing  inclination/’  This  is  not  un- 
likely; and  the  same  inference  would  lead  us  to 
suppose  that  this  mutual  inclination  had  com- 
menced before  the  opening  of  the  play.  The  very 
first  words  uttered  by  Beatrice  are  an  inquiry  after 
Benedick,  though  expressed  with  her  usual  arch 
impertinence' — 

I pray  you,  is  Signior  Montanto  returned  from  the  wars, 
or  no? 

I pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these 
wars?  But  how  many  hath  he  killed?  for  indeed  I promised 
to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

And  in  the  unprovoked  hostility  with  which  she 
falls  upon  him  in  his  absence,  in  the  pertinacity 
and  bitterness  of  her  satire,  there  is  certainly 
great  argument  that  he  occupies  much  more  of 
her  thoughts  than  she  would  have  been  willing  to 
confess,  even  to  herself.  In  the  same  manner, 
Benedick  betrays  a lurking  partiality  for  his  fas- 
cinating enemy;  he  shows  that  he  has  looked  upon 
her  with  no  careless  eye,  when  he  says — 

There’s  her  cousin  (meaning  Beatrice),  an  she  were  not 
possessed  with  a fury,  excels  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the 
first  of  May  does  the  last  of  December. 

Infinite  skill,  as  well  as  humor,  is  shown  in 
making  this  pair  of  airy  beings  the  exact  counter- 
part of  each  other;  but  of  the  two  portraits,  that 
of  Benedick  is  by  far  the  most  pleasing,  because 


Beatrice. 


55 


the  independence  and  gay  indifference  of  temper, 
the  laughing  defiance  of  love  and  marriage,  the 
satirical  freedom  of  expression,  common  to  both, 
are  more  becoming  to  the  masculine  than  to  the 
feminine  character.  Any  woman  might  love  such 
a cavalier  as  Benedick,  and  be  proud  of  his  affec- 
tion; his  valor,  his  wit,  and  his  gayety  sit  so  grace- 
fully upon  him!  and  his  light  scoffs  against  the 
power  of  love  are  but  just  sufficient  to  render 
more  piquant  the  conquest  of  this  “heretic  in 
despite  of  beauty.”  But  a man  might  well  be 
pardoned  who  should  shrink  from  encountering 
such  a spirit  as  that  of  Beatrice,  unless,  indeed, 
he  had  “served  an  apprenticeship  to  the  taming 
school.”  The  wit  of  Beatrice  is  less  good-humored 
than  that  of  Benedick;  or,  from  the  difference  of 
sex,  appears  so.  It  is  observable,  that  the  power 
is  throughout  on  her  side,  and  the  sympathy  and 
interest  on  his:  which,  by  reversing  the  usual 
order  of  things,  seems  to  excite  us  against  the 
grain , if  I may  use  such  an  expression.  In  all 
their  encounters  she  constantly  gets  the  better  of 
him,  and  the  gentleman’s  wits  go  off  halting,  if 
he  is  not  himself  fairly  hors  de  combat.  Beatrice, 
woman  like,  generally  has  the  first  word,  and  will 
have  the  last.  Thus,  when  they  first  meet,  she 
begins  by  provoking  the  merry  warfare — 

I wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior  Benedick: 
nobody  marks  you. 

Benedick.  What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain!  are  you  yet 
living? 

Beatrice.  Is  it  possible  Disdain  should  die,  wnile  she  hath 
such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  Signior  Benedick?  Courtesy 
Itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  presence. 


56  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

It  is  clear  that  she  cannot  for  a moment  en« 
dnre  his  neglect,  and  he  can  as  little  tolerate  her 
scorn.  Nothing  that  Benedick  addresses  to 
Beatrice  personally  can  equal  the  malicious  force 
of  some  of  her  attacks  upon  him:  he  is  either  re- 
strained by  a feeling  of  natural  gallantry,  little 
as  she  deserves  the  consideration  due  to  her  sex 
(for  a female  satirist  ever  places  herself  beyond 
the  pale  of  such  forbearance),  or  he  is  subdued 
by  her  superior  volubility.  He  revenges  himself, 
however,  in  her  absence:  he  abuses  her  with  such 
a variety  of  comic  invective,  and  pours  forth  his 
pent-up  wrath  with  such  a ludicrous  extravagance 
and  exaggeration,  that  he  betrays  at  once  how 
deep  is  his  mortification,  and  how  unreal  his 
enmity. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  tilting  and  sparring  of 
their  nimble  and  fiery  wits,  we  find  them  infinitely 
anxious  for  the  good  opinion  of  each  other,  and 
secretly  impatient  of  each  other’s  scorn;  but 
Beatrice  is  the  most  truly  indifferent  of  the  two, 
the  most  assured  of  herself.  The  comic  effect  pro- 
duced by  their  mutual  attachment,  which,  how- 
ever natural  and  expected,  comes  upon  us  with 
all  the  force  of  a surprise,  cannot  be  surpassed: 
and  how  exquisitely  characteristic  the  mutual 
avowal! — 

Benedick.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beatrice.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Benedick.  I will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me;  and  I will 
make  him  eat  it  that  says  I love  not  you. 

Beatrice.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word? 

Benedick.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it;  I pro* 
test  I love  thee. 

Beatrice . Why,  then,  God  forgive  me! 


Beatrice. 


57 


Benedick . What  offense,  sweet  Beatrice? 

Beatrice.  You  stayed  me  in  a happy  hour.  I was  about 
to  protest  I loved  you. 

Benedick.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart? 

Beatrice.  I love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart  that  there 
is  none  left  to  protest. 

But  here  again  the  dominion  rests  with 
Beatrice,  and  she  appears  in  a less  amiable  light 
than  her  lover.  Benedick  surrenders  his  whole 
heart  to  her  and  to  his  new  passion.  The  revul- 
sion of  feeling  even  causes  it  to  overflow  in  an 
excess  of  fondness;  but  with  Beatrice  temper  has 
still  the  mastery.  The  affection  of  Benedick  in- 
duces him  to  challenge  his  intimate  friend  for  her 
sake,  but  the  affection  of  Beatrice  does  not  pre- 
vent her  from  risking  the  life  of  her  lover. 

The  character  of  Hero  is  well  contrasted  with 
that  of  Beatrice,  and  their  mutual  attachment 
is  very  beautiful  and  natural.  When  they  are 
both  on  the  scene  together,  Hero  has  but  little 
to  say  for  herself:  Beatrice  asserts  the  rule  of 
a master  spirit,  eclipses  her  by  her  mental  superi- 
ority, abashes  her  by  her  raillery,  dictates  to  her, 
answers  for  her,  and  would  fain  inspire  her 
gentle-hearted  cousin  with  some  of  her  own 
assurance — 


Yes,  faith,  it  is  my  cousin’s  duty  to  make  a curtsey,  and 
say,  “Father,  as  it  please  you;”  but  yet  for  all  that,  cousin, 
let  him  be  a handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another  curtsey, 
and  say,  “Father,  as  it  please  me.” 

But  Shakspeare  knew  well  how  to  make  one 
character  subordinate  to  another,  without  sacri- 
ficing the  slightest  portion  of  its  effect;  and  Hero, 


58  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

added  to  her  grace  and  softness,  and  all  the  in- 
terest which  attaches  to  her  as  the  sentimental 
heroine  of  the  play,  possesses  an  intellectual 
beauty  of  her  own.  When  she  has  Beatrice  at  an 
advantage,  she  repays  her  with  interest,  in  the 
severe,  but  most  animated  and  elegant  picture 
she  draws  of  her  cousin’s  imperious  character  and 
unbridled  levity  of  tongue.  The  portrait  is  a lit- 
tle overcharged,  because  administered  as  a cor- 
rective, and  intended  to  be  overheard — 

But  Nature  never  fram’d  a woman’s  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice: 

Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 

Misprising  what  they  look  on;  and  her  wit 

Values  itself  so  highly  that  to  her 

All  matter  else  seems  weak:  she  cannot  love, 

Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 

She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Ursula.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Eero.  No;  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 

As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable: 

But  who  dare  tell  her  so?  If  I should  speak. 

She’d  mock  me  into  air:  O,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 

Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover’d  fire, 

Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly: 

It  were  a better  death  than  die  with  mocks, 

Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Beatrice  never  appears  to  greater  advantage 
than  in  her  soliloquy,  after  leaving  her  conceal- 
ment “in  the  pleached  bower,  where  honey- 
suckles, ripened  by  the  sun,  forbid  the  sun  to 
enter.”  She  exclaims,  after  listening  to  this  tirade 
against  herself — 

What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?  Can  this  be  true? 

Stand  I condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much? 


Beatrice. 


59 


The  sense  of  wounded  vanity  is  lost  in  bitter  feel- 
ings, and  she  is  infinitely  more  struck  by  what  is 
said  in  praise  of  Benedick,  and  the  history  of  his 
supposed  love  for  her,  than  by  the  dispraise  of 
herself.  The  immediate  success  of  the  trick  is 
a most  natural  consequence  of  the  self-assurance 
and  magnanimity  of  her  character;  she  is  so 
accustomed  to  assert  dominion  over  the  spirits 
of  others,  that  she  cannot  suspect  the  possibility 
of  a plot  laid  against  herself. 

A haughty,  excitable,  and  violent  temper  is 
another  of  the  characteristics  of  Beatrice;  but 
there  is  more  of  impulse  than  of  passion  in  her 
vehemence.  In  the  marriage  scene,  where  she  has 
beheld  her  gentle-spirited  cousin — whom  she 
loves  the  more  for  those  very  qualities  which  are 
most  unlike  her  own — slandered,  deserted,  and 
devoted  to  public  shame,  her  indignation,  and 
the  eagerness  with  which  she  hungers  and  thirsts 
after  revenge,  are,  like  the  rest  of  her  character, 
open,  ardent,  impetuous,  but  not  deep  or  implac- 
able. When  she  bursts  into  that  outrageous 
speech — 


Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a villain,  that  hath 
slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman?  O that  I 
were  a man!  What!  bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come  to 
take  hands;  and  then  with  public  accusation,  uncovered 
slander,  unmitigated  rancor— O God,  that  I were  a man!  I 
would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place! 


And  when  she  commends  her  lover,  as  the  first 
proof  of  his  affection,  “to  kill  Claudio,”  the  very 
consciousness  of  the  exaggeration — of  the  contrast 
between  the  real  good-nature  of  Beatrice  and  the 


60  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

fierce*  tenor  of  her  language — keeps  alive  the  comic 
effect*  mingling  the  ludicrous  with  the  serious.  It 
is  remarkable  that*  notwithstanding  the  point 
and  vivacity  of  the  dialogue*  few  of  the  speeches 
of  Beatrice  are  capable  of  a general  application*  or 
engrave  themselves  distinctly  on  the  memory; 
they  contain  more  mirth  than  matter;  and  though 
wit  be  the  predominant  feature  in  the  dramatic 
portrait*  Beatrice  more  charms  and  dazzles  us  by 
what  she  is  than  by  what  she  says . It  is  not 
merely  her  sparkling  repartees  and  saucy  jests*  it 
is  the  soul  of  wit*  and  the  spirit  of  gayety  in  form- 
ing the  whole  character — looking  out  from  her 
brilliant  eyes*  and  laughing  on  her  full  lips  that 
pout  with  scorn — which  we  have  before  us* 
moving  and  full  of  life.  On  the  whole*  we  dis- 
miss Benedick  and  Beatrice  to  their  matrimonial 
bonds  rather  with  a sense  of  amusement  than  a 
feeling  of  congratulation  or  sympathy;  rather 
with  an  acknowledgment  that  they  are  well 
matched*  and  worthy  of  each  other*  than  with 
any  well-founded  expectation  of  their  domestic 
tranquillity.  If*  as  Benedick  asserts*  they  are  both 
“too  wise  to  woo  peaceably*”  it  may  be  added*  that 
both  are  too  wise*  too  witty*  and  too  wilful  to  live 
peaceably  together.  We  have  some  misgivings 
about  Beatrice*  some  apprehensions  that  poor 
Benedick  will  not  escape  the  “predestinate 
scratched  face*”  which  he  had  foretold  to  him 
who  should  win  and  wear  this  quick-witted  and 
pleasant-spirited  lady.  Yet  when  we  recollect 
that  to  the  wit  and  imperious  temper  of  Beatrice 
is  united  a magnanimity  of  spirit  which  would 
naturally  place  her  far  above  all  selfishness*  and 


Beatrice. 


61 


all  paltry  struggles  for  power,  when  we  perceive, 
in  the  midst  of  her  sarcastic  levity  and  volubility 
of  tongue,  so  much  of  generous  affection,  and 
such  a high  sense  of  female  virtue  and  honor, 
we  are  inclined  to  hope  the  best.  We  think  it 
possible  that,  though  the  gentleman  may  now 
and  then  swear,  and  the  lady  scold,  the  native 
good-humor  of  the  one,  the  really  fine  under- 
standing of  the  other,  and  the  value  they  so  evi- 
dently attach  to  each  other's  esteem,  will  ensure 
them  a tolerable  portion  of  domestic  felicity,  and 
in  this  hope  we  leave  them. 


ROSALIND. 


1COME  now  to  Rosalind,  whom  I should  have 
ranked  before  Beatrice,  inasmuch  as  the 
greater  degree  of  her  sex’s  softness  and  sensi- 
bility, united  with  equal  wit  and  intellect,  give 
her  the  superiority  as  a woman;  but  that  as  a 
dramatic  character  she  is  inferior  in  force.  The 
portrait  is  one  of  infinitely  more  delicacy  and 
variety,  but  of  less  strength  and  depth.  It  is  easy 
to  seize  on  the  prominent  features  in  the  mind 
of  Beatrice,  but  extremely  difficult  to  catch  and 
fix  the  more  fanciful  graces  of  Rosalind.  She 
is  like  a compound  of  essences,  so  volatile  in  their 
nature,  and  so  exquisitely  blended,  that  on  any 
attempt  to  analyze  them  they  seem  to  escape  us. 
To  what  else  shall  we  compare  her,  all-enchanting 
as  she  is? — to  the  silvery  summer  clouds,  which, 
even  while  we  gaze  on  them,  shift  their  hues  and 
forms,  dissolving  into  air  and  light  and  rainbow 
showers? — to  the  May  morning,  flush  with  open- 
ing blossoms  and  roseate  dews,  and  “charm  of 
earliest  birds?” — to  some  wild  and  beautiful 
melody,  such  as  some  shepherd  boy  might  “pipe 
to  Amaryllis  in  the  shade?” — to  a mountain 
streamlet,  now  smooth  as  a mirror  in  which  the 
skies  may  glass  themselves,  and  anon  leaping  and 
sparkling  in  the  sunshine,  or  rather  to  the  very 
sunshine  itself?  For  so  her  genial  spirit  touches 
into  life  and  beauty  whatever  it  shines  on! 

62 


Rosalind. 


63 


But  this  impression,  though  produced  by  the 
complete  development  of  the  character,  and  in 
the  end  possessing  the  whole  fancy,  is  not  im- 
mediate. The  first  introduction  of  Rosalind  is 
less  striking  than  interesting;  we  see  her  a de- 
pendent, almost  a captive,  in  the  house  of  her 
usurping  uncle;  her  genial  spirits  are  subdued  by 
her  situation,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  ban- 
ished father;  her  playfulness  is  under  a temporary 
eclipse — 


I pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry! 


is  an  adjuration  which  Rosalind  needed  not  when 
once  at  liberty,  and  sporting  “under  the  green- 
wood tree.”  The  sensibility  and  even  pensiveness 
of  her  demeanor  in  the  first  instance  render  her 
archness  and  gayety  afterward  more  graceful  and 
more  fascinating. 

Though  Rosalind  is  a princess,  she  is  a princess 
of  Arcady;  and,  notwithstanding  the  charming 
effect  produced  by  her  first  scenes,  we  scarcely 
ever  think  of  her  with  a reference  to  them,  or 
associate  her  with  a court  and  the  artificial 
appendages  of  her  rank.  She  was  not  made  to 
“lord  it  o’er  a fair  mansion,”  and  take  state  upon 
her,  like  the  all-accomplished  Portia;  but  to 
breathe  the  free  air  of  heaven,  and  frolic  among 
green  leaves.  She  was  not  made  to  stand  the 
siege  of  daring  profligacy,  and  oppose  high  action 
and  high  passion  to  the  assaults  of  adverse  for- 
tune, like  Isabel;  but  to  “fleet  the  time  carelessly 
as  they  did  i’  the  golden  age.”  She  was  not  made 
to  bandy  wit  with  lords,  and  tread  courtly  meas- 


64  Shakspeare’s  Heroines 

ures  with  plumed  and  warlike  cavaliers,  like 
Beatrice;  but  to  dance  on  the  greensward,  and 
“murmur  among  living  brooks  a music  sweeter 
than  their  own.” 

Though  sprightliness  is  the  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  Rosalind,  as  of  Beatrice,  yet  we 
find  her  much  more  nearly  allied  to  Portia  in 
temper  and  intellect.  The  tone  of  her  mind  is, 
like  Portia's,  genial  and  buoyant:  she  has  some- 
thing, too,  of  her  softness  and  sentiment;  there  is 
the  same  confiding  abandonment  of  self  in  her 
affections:  but  the  characters  are  otherwise  as  dis- 
tinct as  the  situations  are  dissimilar.  The  age, 
the  manners,  the  circumstance,  in  which  Shak- 
speare  has  placed  his  Portia,  are  not  beyond  the 
bounds  of  probability;  nay,  have  a certain  reality 
and  locality.  We  fancy  her  a cotemporary  of  the 
Raffaelles  and  the  Ariostos;  the  sea-wedded 
Venice,  its  merchants  and  Magnificos,  the  Rialto 
and  the  long  canals — rise  up  before  us  when  we 
think  of  her.  But  Rosalind  is  surrounded  with 
the  purely  ideal  and  imaginative;  the  reality  is  in 
the  characters  and  in  the  sentiments,  not  in  the 
circumstances  or  situation.  Portia  is  dignified, 
splendid,  and  romantic,  Rosalind  is  playful,  pas- 
toral, and  picturesque:  both  are  in  the  highest 
degree  poetical,  but  the  one  is  epic  and  the  other 
lyric. 

Everything  about  Rosalind  breathes  of  “youth 
and  youth's  sweet  prime."  She  is  fresh  as  the 
morning,  sweet  as  the  dew-awakened  blossoms, 
and  light  as  the  breeze  that  plays  among  them. 
She  is  as  witty,  as  voluble,  as  sprightly  as 
Beatrice;  but  in  a style  altogether  distinct.  In 


ROSALIND 


Rosalind. 


65 


both  the  wit  is  equally  unconscious:  but  in 
Beatrice  it  plays  about  us  like  the  lightning 
dazzling  but  also  alarming;  while  the  wit  of  Rosa- 
lind bubbles  up  and  sparkles  like  the  living  foun- 
tain, refreshing  all  around.  Her  volubility  is  like 
the  bird’s  song;  it  is  the  outpouring  of  a heart 
filled  to  overflowing  with  life,  love  and  joy,  and 
all  sweet  and  affectionate  impulses.  She  has  as 
much  tenderness  as  mirth,  and  in  her  most  petu- 
lant raillery  there  is  a touch  of  softness — “By  this 
hand,  it  will  not  hurt  a fly.”  As  her  vivacity 
never  lessens  our  impression  of  her  sensibility, 
so  she  wears  her  masculine  attire  without  the 
slighest  impugnment  of  her  delicacy.  Shakspeare 
did  not  make  the  modesty  of  his  women  depend 
on  their  dress,  as  we  shall  see  further  when  we 
come  to  Viola  and  Imogen.  Rosalind  has  in 
truth  “no  doublet  and  hose  in  her  disposition.” 
How  her  heart  seems  to  throb  and  flutter  under 
her  page’s  vest!  What  depth  of  love  in  her  pas- 
sion for  Orlando!  whether  disguised  beneath  a 
saucy  playfulness,  or  breaking  forth  with  a fond 
impatience,  or  half  betrayed  in  that  beautiful 
scene  where  she  faints  at  the  sight  of  the  kerchief 
stained  with  his  blood!  Here  her  recovery  of  her 
self-possession — her  fears  lest  she  should  have  re- 
vealed her  sex — her  presence  of  mind,  and  quick- 
witted excuse1 — 

I pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I counterfeited— 

and  the  characteristic  playfulness  which  seems 
to  return  so  naturally  with  her  recovered  senses 
— are  all  as  amusing  as  consistent.  Then  how 
beautifully  is  the  dialogue  managed  between  her- 


66  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

self  and  Orlando!  how  well  she  assumes  the  airs 
of  a saucy  page,  without  throwing  off  her  femi- 
nine sweetness!  How  her  wit  flutters  free  as  air 
over  every  subject!  with  what  a careless  grace,  yet 
with  what  exquisite  propriety! — 

For  innocence  hath  a privilege  in  her 

To  dignify  arch  jest  and  laughing  eyes. 

And  if  the  freedom  of  some  of  the  expressions 
used  by  Eosalind  or  Beatrice  he  objected  to,  let 
it  be  remembered  that  this  was  not  the  fault  of 
Shakspeare  or  the  women,  but  generally  of  the 
age.  Portia,  Beatrice,  Eosalind,  and  the  rest, 
lived  in  times  when  more  importance  was  attached 
to  things  than  to  words;  now  we  think  more  of 
words  than  of  things.;  and  happy  are  we  in  these 
later  days  of  super-refinement,  if  we  are  to  be 
saved  by  our  verbal  morality.  But  this  is  med- 
dling with  the  province  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
and  our  argument  is  Eosalind. 

The  impression  left  upon  our  hearts  and  minds 
by  the  character  of  Eosalind — by  the  mixture  of 
playfulness,  sensibility,  and  what  the  French  (and 
we  for  lack  of  a better  expression)  call  naivete — 
is  like  a delicious  strain  of  music.  There  is  a 
depth  of  delight,  and  a subtlety  of  words  to  ex- 
press that  delight,  which  is  enchanting.  Yet 
when  we  call  to  mind  particular  speeches  and 
passages,  we  find  that  they  have  a relative  beauty 
and  propriety,  which  renders  it  difficult  to  sepa- 
rate them  from  the  context  without  injuring  their 
effect.  She  says  some  of  the  most  charming  things 
in  the  world,  and  some  of  the  most  humorous; 
but  we  apply  them  as  phrases  rather  than  as 


Rosalind, 


67 


maxims,  and  remember  them  rather  for  their 
pointed  felicity  of  expression  and  fanciful  appli- 
cation, than  for  their  general  truth  and  depth  of 
meaning.  I will  give  a few  instances — 

I was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras’  time— that  1 
was  an  Irish  rat— which  I can  hardly  remember.* 

Good  my  complexion!  Dost  thou  think,  though  I am 
caparisoned  like  a man,  that  I have  a doublet  and  hose  in 
my  disposition? 

We  dwell  here  in  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon 
a petticoat. 

Love  is  merely  a madness;  and,  I tell  you,  deserves  as 
well  a dark  house  and  a whip  as  madmen  do;  and  the  reason 
why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy 
is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too. 

A traveler!  By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason  to  be  sad. 
I fear  you  have  sold  your  own  lands,  to  see  other  men’s; 
then,  to  have  seen  much,  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have 
rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 

Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveler.  Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear 
strange  suits;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country; 
be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for 
making  you  that  countenance  you  are;  or  I will  scarce  think 
you  have  swam,  in  a gondola. 

Break  an  hour’s  promise  in  love!  He  that  will  divide  a 
minute  into  a thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a part  of  the 
thousandth  part  of  a minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be 
said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapp’d  him  o’  the  shoulder, 
but  I’ll  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten 
them— but  not  for  love. 

I could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man’s  apparel, 
and  to  cry  like  a woman;  but  I must  comfort  the  weaker 
vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself  courageous 
to  petticoat. 

* In  Shakspeare’s  time  there  were  people  in  Ireland 
(there  may  be  such  still,  for  aught  I know)  who  undertook 
to  charm  rats  to  death,  by  chanting  certain  verses  which 
acted  as  a spell.  “Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  rats  in 
Ireland,”  is  a line  in  one  of  Ben  Jonson’s  comedies;  this  will 
explain  Rosalind’s  humorous  allusion. 

c 


68 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Rosalind  lias  not  the  impressive  eloquence  of 
Portia,  nor  the  sweet  wisdom  of  Isabella.  Her 
longest  speeches  are  not  her  best;  nor  is  her  taunt- 
ing address  to  Phebe,  beautiful  and  celebrated  as 
it  is,  equal  to  Phebe’s  own  description  of  her. 
The  latter,  indeed,  is  more  in  earnest.* 

Celia  is  more  quiet  and  retired;  but  she  rather 
yields  to  Rosalind  than  is  eclipsed  by  her.  She 
is  as  full  of  sweetness,  kindness,  and  intelligence, 
quite  as  susceptible,  and  almost  as  witty  though 
she  makes  less  display  of  wit.  She  is  described 
as  less  fair  and  less  gifted;  yet  the  attempt  to 
excite  in  her  mind  a jealously  of  her  lovlier  friend 
by  placing  them  in  comparison — 

Thou  art  a fool;  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name; 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 
When  she  is  gone — 


fails  to  awaken  in  the  generous  heart  of  Celia  any 
other  feeling  than  an  increased  tenderness  and 
sympathy  for  her  cousin.  To  Celia,  Shakspeare 
har  given  some  of  the  most  striking  and  animated 
parts  of  the  dialogue;  and  in  particular  that  ex- 
quisite description  of  the  friendship  between  her 
and  Rosalind — 

If  she  be  a traitor, 

Why,  so  am  I;  we  have  still  slept  together, 

Rose  at  an  instant,  learn’d,  play'd,  eat  together, 

And  wheresoe’er  we  went,  like  Juno’s  swans, 

Still  we  were  coupled  and  inseparable. 

* Rousseau  could  describe  such  a character  as  Rosalind, 
but  failed  to  represent  it  consistently.  “N’est-ce  pas  de  ton 
coeur  que  viennent  les  graces  de  ton  enjouement?  Tes  rail- 
leries sont  des  signes  d’interet  plus  touchants  que  les  com- 
plements d’un  autre.  Tu  caresses  quand  tu  folatres.  Tu  ris, 
mais  ton  rire  penetre  l’ame;  tu  ris,  mais  tu  fais  pleurer  de 
tendresse,  et  je  te  vois  presque  tou jours  serieuse  avec  les 
in  diff  6ren  ts. ’’—HeZoise. 


Rosalind. 


69 


The  feeling  of  interest  and  admiration  thus 
excited  for  Celia  at  the  first,  follows  her  through 
the  whole  play.  We  listen  to  her  as  to  one  who 
has  made  herself  worthy  of  our  love,  and  her 
silence  expresses  more  than  eloquence. 

Phebe  is  quite  an  Arcadian  coquette;  she  is  a 
piece  of  pastoral  poetry.  Audrey  is  only  rustic. 
A very  amusing  effect  is  produced  by  the  contrast 
between  the  frank  and  free  bearing  of  the  two 
princesses  in  disguise  and  the  scornful  airs  of  the 
real  shepherdess.  In  the  speeches  of  Phebe,  and 
in  the  dialogue  between  her  and  Sylvius,  Shak- 
speare  has  anticipated  all  the  beauties  of  the 
Italian  pastoral,  and  surpassed  Tasso  and  Guarini. 
We  find  two  among  the  most  poetical  passages  of 
the  play  appropriated  to  Phebe — the  taunting 
speech  to  Sylvius,  and  the  description  of  Rosalind 
in  her  page’s  costume;  which  last  is  finer  than  the 
portrait  of  Bathyllus  in  Anacreon. 


Characters  of  Passion  and 
Imagination. 


JULIET. 


OL0VE!  thou  teacher,  0 Grief!  thou  tamer, 
and  Time,  thou  healer  of  human  hearts! 
— bring  hither  all  your  deep  and  serious 
revelations!  And  ye  too,  rich  fancies  of  un- 
bruised, unbowed  youth — ye  visions  of  long-per- 
ished hopes — shadows  of  unborn  joys — gay  color- 
ings of  the  dawn  of  existence!  whatever  memory 
hath  treasured  up  of  bright  and  beautiful  in 
nature  or  in  art;  all  soft  and  delicate  images — 
all  lovely  forms — divinest  voices  and  entrancing 
melodies — gleams  of  sunnier  skies  and  fairer 
climes — Italian  moonlights,  and  airs  that  ‘‘breathe 
of  the  sweet  south,” — now,  if  it  be  possible,  revive 
to  my  imagination — live  once  more  to  my  heart! 
Come  thronging  around  me,  all  inspirations  that 
wait  on  passion,  on  power,  on  beauty;  give  me  to 
tread,  not  bold,  and  yet  unblamed,  within  the  in- 
most sanctuary  of  Shakspeare’s  genius,  in  Juliet’s 
moonlight  bower  and  Miranda’s  enchanted  isle! 

* * * * * * * 

It  is  not  without  emotion  that  I attempt  to 
* touch  on  the  character  of  Juliet.  Such  beautiful 
things  have  already  been  said  of  her — only  to  be 
exceeded  in  beauty  by  the  subject  that  inspired 
them! — it  is  impossible  to  say  anything  better; 
but  it  is  possible  to  say  something  more.  Such, 
in  fact,  is  the  simplicity,  the  truth,  and  the  love- 
liness of  Juliet’s  character,  that  we  are  not  at  first 
73 


74  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

aware  of  its  complexity,  its  depth,  and  its  variety. 
There  is  in  it  an  intensity  of  passion,  a single- 
ness of  purpose,  an  entireness,  a completeness  of 
effect,  which  we  feel  as  a whole;  and  to  attempt 
to  analyze  the  impression  thus  conveyed  at  once 
to  soul  and  sense  is  as  if,  while  hanging  over  a 
half-blown  rose,  and  reveling  in  its  intoxicating 
perfume,  we  should  pull  it  asunder,  leaflet  by 
leaflet,  the  better  to  display  its  bloom  and  fra- 
grance. Yet  how  otherwise  should  we  disclose 
the  wonders  of  its  formation,  or  do  justice  to  the 
skill  of  the  divine  hand  that  hath  thus  fashioned 
it  in  its  beauty? 

Love,  as  a passion,  forms  the  groundwork  of 
the  drama.  Now  admitting  the  axiom  of  Roche- 
foucauld, that  there  is  but  one  love,  though  a 
thousand  different  copies,  yet  the  true  sentiment 
itself  has  as  many  different  aspects  as  the  human 
soul  of  which  it  forms  a part.  It  is  not  only  mod- 
ified by  the  individual  character  and  tempera- 
ment, but  it  is  under  the  influence  of  climate  and 
circumstance.  The  love,  that  is  calm  in  one 
moment,  shall  show  itself  vehement  and  tumultu- 
ous at  another.  The  love,  that  is  wild  and  pas- 
sionate in  the  south,  is  deep  and  contemplative 
in  the  north;  as  the  Spanish  or  Roman  girl  per- 
haps poisons  a rival,  or  stabs  herself  for  the  sake 
of  a living  lover,  and  the  German  or  Russian  girl 
pines  into  the  grave  for  love  of  the  false,  the 
absent,  or  the  dead.  Love  is  ardent  or  deep,  bold 
or  timid,  jealous  or  confiding,  impatient  or  hum- 
ble, hopeful  or  desponding; — and  yet  there  are 
not  many  loves,  but  one  love. 

All  Shakspeare’s  women,  being  essentially 


Juliet. 


75 


women,  either  love  or  have  loved,  or  are  capable 
of  loving;  but  Juliet  is  love  itself.  The  passion 
is  her  state  of  being,  and  out  of  it  she  has  no  ex- 
istence. It  is  the  soul  within  her  soul;  the  pulse 
within  her  heart;  the  life-blood  along  her  veins, 
“blending  with  every  atom  of  her  frame/’  The 
love  that  is  so  chaste  and  dignified  in  Portia — so 
airy-delicate  and  fearless  in  Miranda; — so  sweetly 
confiding  in  Perdita — so  playfully  fond  in  Rosa- 
lind— so  constant  in  Imogen — so  devoted  in  Des- 
demona. — so  fervent  in  Helen — so  tender  in  Viola 
— is  each  and  all  of  these  in  Juliet.  All  these 
remind  us  of  her;  but  she  reminds  us  of  nothing 
but  her  own  sweet  self;  or  if  she  does,  it  is  of  the 
Gismunda,  or  the  Lisetta,  or  the  Fiametta  of 
Boccaccio,  to  whom  she  is  allied,  not  in  the 
character  or  circumstances,  but  in  the  truly 
Italian  spirit,  the  glowing  national  complexion 
of  the  portrait.* 

There  was  an  Italian  painter  who  said  that  the 
secret  of  all  effect  in  color  consisted  in  white  upon 
black,  and  black  upon  white.  How  perfectly  did 
Shakspeare  understand  this  secret  of  effect!  and 
how  beautifully  has  he  exemplified  it  in  Juliet — 

So  shows  a snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows, 

As  yonder  lady  o’er  her  fellows  shows. 

* Lord  Byron  remarked  of  the  Italian  women  (and  he 
could  speak  avec  connaissance  de  fait)  that  they  are  the  only 
women  in  the  world  capable  of  impressions,  at  once  very 
sudden  and  very  durable;  which,  he  adds,  is  to  be  found  in 
no  other  nation.  Mr.  Moore  observes  afterwards,  how  com- 
pletely an  Italian  woman,  either  from  nature  or  her  social 
position,  is  led  to  invert  the  usual  course  of  frailty  among 
ourselves,  and,  weak  in  resisting  the  first  impulses  of  pas- 
sion, to  reserve  the  whole  strength  of  her  character  for  a 
display  of  constancy  and  devotedness  afterwards. — Both 
these  traits  of  national  character  are  exemplified  in  Juliet.— 
Moore’s  Life  of  Byron , Vol.  II,  pp.  303,  338,  4to.  edit. 


76  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Thus  she  and  her  lover  are  in  contrast  with  all 
around  them.  They  are  all  love,  surrounded  with 
all  hate;  all  harmony,  surrounded  with  all  dis- 
cord; all  pure  nature,  in  the  midst  of  polished  and 
artificial  life.  Juliet,  like  Portia,  is  the  foster- 
child  of  opulence  and  splendor;  she  dwells  in  a 
fair  city — she  has  been  nurtured  in  a palace — she 
clasps  her  robe  with  jewels — she  braids  her  hair 
with  rainbow-tinted  pearls;  but  in  herself  she  has 
no  more  connection  with  the  trappings  around  her 
than  the  lovely  exotic  transplanted  from  some 
Eden-like  climate  has  with  the  carved  and  gilded 
conservatory  which  has  reared  and  sheltered  its 
luxuriant  beauty. 

But  in  this  vivid  impression  of  contrast  there  is 
nothing  abrupt  or  harsh.  A tissue  of  beautiful 
poetry  weaves  together  the  principal  figures  and 
the  subordinate  personages.  The  consistent  truth 
of  the  costume,  and  the  exquisite  gradations  of 
relief  with  which  the  most  opposite  hues  are 
approximated,  blend  all  into  harmony.  Borneo 
and  Juliet  are  not  poetical  beings  placed  on  a 
prosaic  background;  nor  are  they,  like  Thekla  and 
Max  in  the  “Wallenstein,”  two  angels  of  light 
amid  the  darkest  and  harshest,  the  most  debased 
and  revolting  aspects  of  humanity;  but  every  cir- 
cumstance, and  every  personage,  and  every  shade 
of  character  in  each,  tends  to  the  development 
of  the  sentiment  which  is  the  subject  of  the 
drama.  The  poetry,  too,  the  richest  that  can 
possibly  be  conceived,  is  interfused  through  all 
the  characters;  the  splendid  imagery  lavished  upon 
all  with  the  careless  prodigality  of  genius;  and  the 
whole  is  lighted  up  into  such  a sunny  brilliance  of 


Juliet, 


77 


effect,  as  though  Shakspeare  had  really  trans- 
ported himself  into  Italy  and  had  drunk  to  in- 
toxication of  her  genial  atmosphere.  How  truly 
it  has  been  said,  that  “although  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  in  love,  they  are  not  love-sick!”  What  a false 
idea  would  anything  of  the  mere  whining  amoroso 
give  us  of  Romeo,  such  as  he  really  is  in  Shak- 
speare— the  noble,  gallant,  ardent,  brave,  and 
witty!  And  Juliet — with  even  less  truth  could 
the  phrase  or  idea  apply  to  her!  The  picture  in 
“Twelfth  Night”  of  the  wan  girl  dying  of  love, 
“who  pined  in  thought,  and  with  a green  and 
yellow  melancholy,”  would  never  surely  occur  to 
us  when  thinking  on  the  enamored  and  impas- 
sioned Juliet,  in  whose  bosom  love  keeps  a fiery 
vigil,  kindling  tenderness  into  enthusiasm,  en- 
thusiasm into  passion,  passion  into  heroism!  No, 
the  whole  sentiment  of  the  play  is  of  a far  differ- 
ent cast.  It  is  flushed  with  the  genial  spirit  of  the 
south:  it  tastes  of  youth,  and  of  the  essence  of 
youth;  of  life,  and  of  the  very  sap  of  life.*  We 
have  indeed  the  struggle  of  love  against  evil  des- 
tinies and  a thorny  world;  the  pain,  the  grief,  the 
anguish,  the  terror,  the  despair;  the  aching  adieu; 
the  pang  unutterable  of  parted  affection;  and 
rapture,  truth,  and  tenderness  trampled  into  an 
early  grave:  but  still  an  Elysian  grace  lingers 
round  the  whole,  and  the  blue  sky  of  Italy  bends 
over  all! 

In  the  delineation  of  that  sentiment  which 
forms  the  groundwork  of  the  drama,  nothing  in 
fact  can  equal  the  power  of  the  picture,  but  its 

* La  scve  dr,  la  vie  is  an  expression  used  somewhere  by 
Madame  de  Stael. 


78  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

inexpressible  sweetness  and  its  perfect  grace:  the 
passion  which  has  taken  possession  of  Juliet’s 
whole  soul  has  the  force,  the  rapidity,  the  resist- 
less violence  of  the  torrent;  but  she  is  herself  as 
“moving  delicate,”  as  fair,  as  soft,  as  flexible  as 
the  willow  that  bends  over  it,  whose  light  leaves 
tremble  even  with  the  motion  of  the  current 
which  hurries  beneath  them.  But  at  the  same 
time  that  the  pervading  sentiment  is  never  lost 
sight  of,  and  is  one  and  the  same  throughout,  the 
individual  part  of  the  character  in  all  its  variety 
is  developed,  and  marked  with  the  nicest  dis- 
crimination. For  instance, — the  simplicity  of 
Juliet  is  very  different  from  the  simplicity  of 
Miranda:  her  innocence  is  not  the  innocence  of  a 
desert  island.  The  energy  she  displays  does  not 
once  remind  us  of  the  moral  grandeur  of  Isabel, 
or  the  intellectual  power  of  Portia;  it  is  founded 
in  the  strength  of  passion,  not  in  the  strength  of 
character;  it  is  accidental  rather  than  inherent, 
rising  with  the  tide  of  feeling  or  temper,  and  with 
it  subsiding.  Her  romance  is  not  the  pastoral 
romance  of  Perdita,  nor  the  fanciful  romance  of 
Viola:  it  is  the  romance  of  a tender  heart  and  a 
poetical  imagination.  Her  inexperience  is  not 
ignorance;  she  has  heard  that  there  is  such  a thing 
as  falsehood,  though  she  can  scarcely  conceive 
it.  Her  mother  and  her  nurse  have  perhaps 
warned  her  against  flattering  vows  and  man’s  in- 
constancy, or  she  has  even 


....  turned  the  tale  by  Ariosto  told, 
Of  fair  Olympia,  loved  and  left,  of  old! 


Juliet.  79 

Hence  that  bashful  doubt,  dispelled  almost  as 
sooi}  as  felt — 


Ah,  gentle  Romeo! 

If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully. 

That  conscious  shrinking  from  her  own  confes- 
sion— 


Fain  would  I dwell  on  form;  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I have  spoke! 

The  ingenuous  simplicity  of  her  avowal — 

Or,  if  thou  think’st  I am  too  quickly  won, 

I’ll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 

So  thou  wilt  woo— but  else,  not  for  the  world! 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I am  too  fond, 

And  therefore  thou  may’st  think  my  ’haviour  light; 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I’ll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  who  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 


And  the  proud  yet  timid  delicacy  with  which  she 
throws  herself  for  forbearance  and  pardon  upon 
the  tenderness  of  him  she  loves,  even  for  the  love 
she  bears  him — 


Therefore  pardon  me, 

And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 


In  the  alternative,  which  she  afterwards  places 
before  her  lover  with  such  a charming  mixture  of 
conscious  delicacy  and  girlish  simplicity,  there  is 
that  jealousy  of  female  honor  which  precept  and 


80 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

education  have  infused  into  her  mind,  without 
one  real  doubt  of  his  truth,  or  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion in  her  self-abandonment;  for  she  does  not 
even  wait  to  hear  his  asseverations — 


But  if  thou  mean’st  not  well,  I do  beseech  thee 
To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief. 

Romeo.  So  thrive  my  soul 

Juliet . A thousand  times,  good  night! 


But  all  these  flutterings  between  native  im- 
pulses and  maiden  fears  become  gradually 
absorbed,  swept  away,  lost,  and  swallowed  up  in 
the  depth  and  enthusiasm  of  confiding  love — 


My  bounty  is  as  boundless  m the  sea, 

My  love  as  deep:  The  more  I give  to  you, 
The  more  I have— for  both  are  infinite! 


What  a picture  of  the  young  heart,  that  sees 
no  bound  to  its  hopes,  no  end  to  its  affections! 
For  “what  was  to  hinder  the  thrilling  tide  of 
pleasure,  which  had  just  gushed  from  her  heart, 
from  flowing  on  without  stint  or  measure,  but 
experience,  which  she  has  yet  without?  What 
was  to  abate  the  transport  of  the  first  sweet  sense 
of  pleasure,  which  her  heart  had  just  tasted,  but 
indifference,  to  which  she  was  yet  a stranger? 
What  was  there  to  check  the  ardor  of  hope,  of 
faith,  of  constancy,  just  rising  in  her  breast, 
but  disappointment,  which  she  had  never  yet 
felt?”* 

* “Characters  of  Shakspeare’s  Plays.” 


Juliet. 


81 


Lord  ByTon’s  Haidee  is  a copy  of  Juliet  in  the 
Oriental  costume,  but  the  development  is  epic, 
not  dramatic.* 

I remember  no  dramatic  character  conveying 
the  same  impression  of  singleness  of  purpose,  and 
devotion  of  heart  and  soul,  except  the  Thekla  of 
Schiller’s  “Wallenstein;”  she  is  the  German 
Juliet;  far  unequal,  indeed,  but  conceived,  never- 
theless, in  a kindred  spirit.  I know  not  if  critics 
have  ever  compared  them,  or  whether  Schiller  is 
supposed  to  have  had  the  English,  or  rather  the 
Italian,  Juliet  in  his  fancy  when  he  portrayed 
Thekla;  but  there  are  some  striking  points  of 
coincidence,  while  the  national  distinction  in  the 
character  of  the  passion  leaves  to  Thekla  a strong 


* I must  allude,  but  with  reluctance,  to  another  character, 
which  I have  heard  likened  to  Juliet,  and  often  quoted  as 
the  heroine  par  excellence  of  amatory  fiction — I mean  the 
Julie  of  Rousseau’s  “Nouvelle  Heloise.”  I protest  against 
her  altogether.  As  a creation  of  fancy  the  portrait  is  a 
compound  of  the  most  gross  and  glaring  inconsistencies;  as 
false  and  impossible  to  the  reflecting  and  philosophical  mind 
as  the  fabled  Syrens,  Hamadryads,  and  Centaurs  to  the  eye 
of  the  anatomist.  As  a woman,  Julie  belongs  neither  to 
nature  nor  to  artificial  society;  and  if  the  pages  of  melting 
and  dazzling  eloquence  in  which  Rousseau  has  garnished  out 
his  idol  did  not  blind  and  intoxicate  us,  as  the  incense  and 
the  garlands  did  the  votaries  of  Isis,  we  should  be  disgusted. 
Rousseau,  having  composed  his  Julie  of  the  commonest  clay 
of  the  earth,  does  not  animate  her  with  fire  from  heaven, 
but  breathes  his  own  spirit  into  her.  and  then  calls  the  “im- 
pettieoated”  paradox  a woman.  He  makes  her  a peg  on 
which  to  hancr  his  own  visions  and  sentiments— and  what 
sentiments!  But  that  I fear  to  soil  my  pages,  T would  pick 
out  a few  of  them,  and  show  the  difference  between  this 
strange  combination  of  youth  and  innocence,  philosophy 
and  pedantry,  sophistical  prudery  and  detestable  prossierete, 
and  our  own  Juliet.  No!  if  we  seek  a French  Juliet,  we 
must  go  far.  far  back  to  the  real  Heloise,  to  her  eloquence, 
her  sensibility,  her  fervor  of  nassion.  her  devotedness  of 
truth.  She.  at  least,  married  the  man  she  loved,  and  loved 
the  man  she  married,  and  more  than  died  for  him— but 
enough  of  both. 


82  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

cast  of  originality.*  The  Princess  Thekla  is,  like 
Juliet,  the  heiress  of  rank  and  opulence;  her  first 
introduction  to  us,  in  her  full  dress  and 
diamonds,  does  not  impair  the  impression  of  her 
softness  and  simplicity.  We  do  not  think  of  them, 
nor  do  we  sympathize  with  the  complaint  of  her 
lover — 

The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  which  played  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  from  me. 

We  almost  feel  the  reply  of  Thekla  before  she 
utters  it — 

Then  you  saw  me 

Not  with  your  heart,  but  with  your  eyes! 

The  timidity  of  Thekla  in  her  first  scene,  her 
trembling  silence  in  the  commencement,  and  the 
few  words  she  addresses  to  her  mother,  remind  us 
of  the  unobtrusive  simplicity  of  Juliet’s  first 
appearance;  but  the  impression  is  different:  the 
one  is  the  shrinking  violet,  the  other  the  unex- 
panded rosebud.  Thekla  and  Max  Piccolomini  are, 
like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  divided  by  the  hatred  of 
their  fathers.  The  death  of  Max,  and  the  resolute 
despair  of  Thekla,  are  also  points  of  resemblance: 
and  Thekla’s  complete  devotion,  her  frank  yet 
dignified  abandonment  of  all  disguise,  and  her 
apology  for  her  own  unreserve,  are  quite  in 
Juliet’s  style — 

* B.  Constant  describes  her  beautifully:  “Sa  voix  si  douce 
au  travers  le  bruit  des  armes,  sa  forme  delicate  au  milieu  de 
ces  hommes  tous  eouverts  de  fer,  la  purete  de  son  ame 
opposee  & leurs  calculs  avides,  son  calme  celeste  qui  con- 
traste  avec  leurs  agitations,  remplissent  le  spectateur  d’une 
emotion  constante  et.  m£laneolique,  telle  que  ne  la  fait 
ressentir  nulle  trag£die  ordinaire.” 


Juliet. 


83 


I ought  to  be  less  open,  ought  to  hide 
My  heart  more  from  thee— so  decorum  dictates; 

But  where  in  this  place  wouldst  thou  seek  for  truth 
If  in  my  mouth  thou  didst  not  find  it? 

The  same  confidence,  innocence,  and  fervor  of 
affection  distinguish  both  heroines;  but  the  love 
of  J uliet  is  more  vehement,  the  love  of  Thekla  is 
more  calm,  and  reposes  more  on  itself;  the  love 
of  Juliet  gives  us  the  idea  of  infinitude,  and  that 
of  Thekla  of  eternity;  the  love  of  Juliet  flows  on 
with  an  increasing  tide,  like  the  river  pouring  to 
the  ocean,  and  the  love  of  Thekla  stands  unalter- 
able, and  enduring  as  the  rock.  In  the  heart  of 
Thekla  love  shelters  as  in  a home;  but  in  the  heart 
of  Juliet  he  reigns  a crowned  king — “he  rides  on 
its  pants  triumphant!”  As  women,  they  would 
divide  the  loves  and  suffrages  of  mankind,  but 
not  as  dramatic  characters;  the  moment  we  come 
to  look  nearer,  we  acknowledge  that  it  is  indeed 
“rashness  and  ignorance  to  compare  Schiller  with 
Shakspeare.”*  Thekla  is  a fine  conception  in 
the  German  spirit,  but  Juliet  is  a lovely  and  palp- 
able creation.  The  coloring  in  which  Schiller  has 
arrayed  his  Thekla  is  pale,  sombre,  vague,  com- 
pared with  the  strong  individual  marking,  the  rich 
glow  of  life  and  reality,  which  distinguish  Juliet. 
One  contrast  in  particular  has  always  struck  me: 
the  two  beautiful  speeches  in  the  first  interview 
between  Max  and  Thekla,  that  in  which  she  de- 
scribes her  father's  astrological  chamber,  and  that 
in  which  he  replies  with  reflections  on  the  in- 
fluence of  the  stars,  are  said  to  form  in  them- 
selves a fine  poem.”  They  do  so;  but  never  would 

* Coleridge,  Preface  to  “Wallenstein. ” 


84  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Shakspeare  have  placed  such  extraneous  descrip- 
tion and  reflection  in  the  mouths  of  his  lovers. 
Komeo  and  Juliet  speak  of  themselves  only;  they 
see  only  themselves  in  the  universe;  all  things 
else  are  as  an  idle  matter.  Not  a word  they  utter, 
though  every  word  is  poetry,  not  a sentiment  or 
description,  though  dressed  in  the  most  luxuriant 
imagery,  but  has  a direct  relation  to  themselves, 
or  to  the  situation  in  which  they  are  placed  and 
the  feelings  that  engross  them;  and  besides,  it 
may  be  remarked  of  Thekla,  and  generally  of  all 
tragedy  heroines  in  love,  that,  however  beautifully 
and  distinctly  characterized,  we  see  the  passion 
only  under  one  or  two  aspects  at  most,  or  in 
conflict  with  some  one  circumstance  or  contend- 
ing duty  or  feeling.  In  Juliet  alone  we  find  it 
exhibited  under  every  variety  of  aspect,  and  every 
gradation  of  feeling  it  could  possibly  assume  in  a 
delicate  female  heart — as  we  see  the  rose,  when 
passed  through  the  colors  of  the  prism,  catch  and 
reflect  every  tint  of  the  divided  ray,  and  still  it 
is  the  same  sweet  rose. 

I have  already  remarked  the  quiet  manner  in 
which  Juliet  steals  upon  us  in  her  first  scene,  as 
the  serene,  graceful  girl,  her  feelings  as  yet  un- 
awakened, and  her  energies  all  unknown  to  her- 
self and  unsuspected  by  others.  Her  silence  and 
her  filial  deference  are  charming — 

I’ll  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move; 

But  no  more  deep  will  I endart  mine  eye 

Than  your  consent  shall  give  it  strength  to  fly. 

Much  in  the  same  unconscious  way  we  are  im- 
pressed with  an  idea  of  her  excelling  loveliness — 

Beauty  too  rich  for  me,  for  earth  too  dear! 


Juliet. 


85 


and  which  could  make  the  dark  vault  of  death 
“a  feasting  presence  full  of  light.”  Without  any 
elaborate  description,  we  behold  Juliet,  as  she  is 
reflected  in  the  heart  of  her  lover,  like  a single 
bright  star  mirrored  in  the  bosom  of  a deep, 
transparent  well.  The  rapture  with  which  he 
dwells  on  the  “white  wonder  of  her  hand;”  on 
her  lips — 

That  even  in  pure  and  vestal  modesty 

Still  blush,  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin. 

And  then  her  eyes,  “two  of  the  fairest  stars  in 
all  the  heavens!”  In  his  exclamation  in  the 
sepulchre — 

Ah,  dear  Juliet,  why  art  thou  yet  so  fair? 

there  is  life  and  death,  beauty  and  horror,  rapture 
and  anguish  combined.  The  Friar’s  description 
of  her  approach — 


O,  so  light  a step 

Will  ne’er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint! 


and  then  her  father’s  similitude — 

Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field;— 

all  these  mingle  into  a beautiful  picture  of  youth- 
ful, airy,  delicate  grace — feminine  sweetness,  and 
putrician  elegance. 

And  our  impression  of  Juliet’s  loveliness  and 
sensibility  is  enhanced,  when  we  find  it  overcom- 
ing in  the  bosom  of  Romeo  a previous  love  for 


86  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

another.  His  visionary  passion  for  the  cold,  in- 
accessible Rosalind  forms  but  the  prologue,  the 
threshold,  to  the  true,  the  real  sentiment  which 
succeeds  to  it.  This  incident,  which  is.  found  in 
the  original  story,  has  been  retained  by  Shakspeare 
with  equal  feeling  and  judgment;  and  far  from 
being  a fault  in  taste  and  sentiment,  far  from 
prejudicing  us  against  Romeo,  by  casting  on  him, 
at  the  outset  of  the  piece,  the  stigma  of  incon- 
stancy, it  becomes,  if  properly  considered,  a beauty 
in  the  drama,  and  adds  a fresh  stroke  of  truth  to 
the  portrait  of  the  lover.  Why,  after  all,  should 
we  be  offended  at  what  does  not  offend  Juliet  her- 
self? for  in  the  original  story  we  find  that  her 
attention  is  first  attracted  towards  Romeo  by  see- 
ing him  “fancy  sick  and  pale  of  cheer”  for 
love  of  a cold  beauty.  We  must  remember  that  in 
those  times  every  young  cavalier  of  any  distinc- 
tion devoted  himself,  at  his  first  entrance  into 
the  world,  to  the  service  of  some  fair  lady,  who 
was  selected  to  be  his  fancy's  queen;  and  the  more 
rigorous  the  beauty,  and  the  more  hopeless  the 
love,  the  more  honorable  the  slavery.  To  go 
about  “metamorphosed  by  a mistress,”  as  Speed 
humorously  expresses  it;*  to  maintain  her  su- 
premacy in  charms  at  the  sword's  point;  to  sigh; 
to  walk  with  folded  arms;  to  be  negligent  and 
melancholy,  and  to  show  a careless  desolation, 
was  the  fashion  of  the  day.  The  Surreys,  the 
Sydneys,  the  Bayards,  the  Herberts  of  the  time 
— all  those  who  were  the  mirrors  “in  which  the 
noble  youth  did  dress  themselves” — were  of  this 
fantastic  school  of  gallantry,  the  last  remains  of 

* In  ‘.'The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.” 


Juliet. 


87 


the  age  of  chivalry;  and  it  was  especially  prevalent 
in  Italy.  Shakspeare  has  ridiculed  it  in  many 
places  with  exquisite  humor;  but  he  wished  to 
show  us  that  it  has  its  serious  as  well  as  its  comic 
aspect.  Borneo,  then,  is  introduced  to  us  with 
perfect  truth  of  costume,  as  the  thrall  of  a dream- 
ing, fanciful  passion,  for  the  scornful  Rosalind, 
who  had  forsworn  to  love;  and  on  her  charms  and 
coldness,  and  on  the  power  of  love  generally,  he 
descants  to  his  companions  in  pretty  phrases,  quite 
in  the  style  and  taste  of  the  day* — 


Why,  then,  O brawling  love,  O loving  hate, 

O anything,  of  nothing  first  create! 

O heavy  lightness,  serious  vanity, 

Misshapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms! 

Love  is  a smoke  raised  with  the  fume  of  sighs! 

Being  purged,  a fire  sparkling  in  lovers’  eyes; 
Being  vex’d,  a sea  nourish’d  with  lovers’  tears. 


But  when  once  he  has  beheld  Juliet,  and  quaffed 
intoxicating  draughts  of  hope  and  love  from  her 
soft  glance,  how  all  these  airy  fancies  fade  before 
the  soul-absorbing  reality!  The  lambent  fire  that 
played  round  his  heart  bums  to  that  heart’s  very 


* There  is  an  allusion  to  this  court  language  of  love  in 
“All’s  Well  that  Ends  Well,’’  where  Helena  says: 

There  shall  your  master  have  a thousand  loves — 

****** 

A guide,  a goddess,  and  a sovereign, 

A counsellor,  a traitress,  and  a dear, 

His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 

His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet, 

His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster;  with  a world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptious  Christendoms, 

That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.— Act  I,  Scene  1. 

The  courtly  poets  of  Elizabeth’s  time,  who  copied  the 
Italian  sonneteers  of  the  sixteenth  century,  are  full  of  these 
quaint  conceits. 


88  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

core.  We  no  longer  find  him  adorning  his  lamen- 
tations in  picked  phrases,  or  making  a confidant 
of  gay  companions;  he  is  no  longer  “for  the  num- 
bers that  Petrarch  flowed  in;”  but  all  is  concen- 
trated, earnest,  rapturous,  in  the  feeling  and  the 
expression.  Compare,  for  instance,  the  sparkling 
antithetical  passages  just  quoted  with  one  or  two 
of  his  passionate  speeches  to,  or  of,  Juliet — 

Heaven  is  here. 

Where  Juliet  lives!  etc. 

Ah,  Juliet!  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heaped  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbor  air,  and  let  rich  music’s  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin’d  happiness,  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Come  what  sorrow  may, 

It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 
That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight. 

How  different!  and  how  finely  the  distinction  is 
drawn!  His  first  passion  is  indulged  as  a waking 
dream,  a reverie  of  the  fancy;  it  is  depressing,  in- 
dolent, fantastic:  his  second  elevates  him  to  the 
third  heaven,  or  hurries  him  to  despair.  It  rushes 
to  its  object  through  all  impediments,  defies  all 
dangers,  and  seeks  at  last  a triumphant  grave  in 
the  arms  of  her  he  so  loved.  Thus  Romeo’s  previ- 
ous attachment  to  Rosalind  is  so  contrived  as  to 
exhibit  to  us  another  variety  in  that  passion  which 
is  the  subject  of  the  poem,  by  showing  us  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  fancied  and  the  real  senti- 
ment. It  adds  a deeper  effect  to  the  beauty  of 
Juliet;  it  interests  us  in  the  commencement  for 
the  tender  and  romantic  Romeo;  and  gives  an 


Juliet. 


89 


individual  reality  to  its  character,  by  stamping 
him  like  an  historical,  as  well  as  a dramatic  por- 
trait, with  the  very  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived.* 

It  may  he  remarked  of  Juliet  as  of  Portia,  that 
we  not  only  trace  the  component  qualities  in  each 
as  they  expand  before  us  in  the  course  of  the 
action,  but  we  seem  to  have  known  them  previ- 
ously, and  mingle  a consciousness  of  their  past 
with  the  interest  of  their  present  and  their  future. 
Thus,  in  the  dialogue  between  Juliet  and  her 
parents,  and  in  the  scenes  with  the  Nurse,  we  seem 
to  have  before  us  the  whole  of  her  previous  edu- 
cation and  habits:  we  see  her  on  the  one  hand 
kept  in  severe  subjection  by  her  austere  parents; 
and  on  the  other,  fondled  and  spoiled  by  a foolish 
old  nurse — a situation  perfectly  accordant  with 
the  manners  of  the  time.  Then  Lady  Capulet 
comes  sweeping  by  with  her  train  of  velvet,  her 
black  hood,  her  fan,  and  her  rosary — the  very 
beau-ideal  of  a proud  Italian  matron  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  wdiose  offer  to  poison  Romeo  in 
revenge  for  the  death  of  Tybalt,  stamps  her  with 
one  very  characteristic  trait  of  the  age  and  coun- 
try. Yet  she  loves  her  daugther;  and  there  is  a 
touch  of  remorseful  tenderness  in  her  lamenta- 
tion over  her,  which  adds  to  our  impression  of 
the  timid  softness  of  Juliet,  and  the  harsh  sub- 
jection in  which  she  has  been  kept — 

But  one,  poor  one!— one  poor  and  loving  child, 

But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in, 

And  cruel  death  hath  catch’d  it  from  my  sight! 

* Since  this  was  written  I have  met  with  some  remarks 
of  a similar  tendency  in  that  most  Interesting  book,  “The 
Life  of  Lord  E.  Fitzgerald/’ 


90  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Capulet,  as  the  jovial,  testy  old  man,  the  self- 
willed,  violent,  tyrannical  father — to  whom  his 
daughter  is  but  a property,  the  appanage  of  his 
house,  and  the  object  of  his  pride — is  equal  as 
a portrait:  but  both  must  yield  to  the  Nurse,  who 
is  drawn  with  the  most  wonderful  power  and  dis- 
crimination. In  the  prosaic  homeliness  of  the  out- 
line, and  the  magical  illusion  of  the  coloring,  she 
reminds  us  of  some  of  the  marvelous  Dutch  paint- 
ings, from  which,  with  all  their  coarseness,  we 
start  back  as  from  a reality.  Her  low  humor,  her 
shallow  garrulity,  mixed  with  the  dotage  and  pet- 
ulance of  age,  her  subserviency,  her  secrecy,  and 
her  total  want  of  elevated  principle,  or  even  com- 
mon honesty,  are  brought  before  us  like  a living 
and  palpable  truth. 

Among  these  harsh  and  inferior  spirits  is  Juliet 
placed;  her  haughty  parents,  and  her  plebeian 
nurse,  not  only  throw  into  beautiful  relief  her  own 
native  softness  and  elegance,  but  are  at  once  the 
cause  and  the  excuse  of  her  subsequent  conduct. 
She  trembles  before  her  stern  mother  and  her 
violent  father;  but,  like  a petted  child,  alternately 
cajoles  and  commands  her  nurse.  It  is  her  old 
foster-mother  who  is  the  confidant  of  her  love. 
It  is  the  woman  who  cherished  her  infancy  who 
aids  and  abets  her  in  her  clandestine  marriage. 
Do  we  not  perceive  how  immediately  our  impres- 
sion of  Juliet’s  character  would  have  been  lowered, 
if  Shakspeare  had  placed  her  in  connection  with 
any  commonplace  dramatic  waiting-woman? — 
even  with  Portia’s  adroit  Nerissa,  or  Desdemona’s 
Emilia?  By  giving  her  the  Nurse  for  her  con- 
fidant, the  sweetness  and  dignity  of  Juliet’s 


Juliet. 


91 


character  are  preserved  inviolate  to  the  fancy, 
even  in  the  midst  of  all  the  romance  and  wilful- 
ness of  passion. 

The  natural  result  of  these  extremes  of  subjec- 
tion and  independence  is  exhibited  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Juliet  as  it  gradually  opens  upon  us.  We 
behold  it  in  the  mixture  of  self-will  and  timidity, 
of  strength  and  weakness,  of  confidence  and  re- 
serve, which  are  developed  as  the  action  of  the 
play  proceeds.  We  see  it  in  the  fond  eagerness  of 
the  indulged  girl,  for  whose  impatience  the 
“nimblest  of  the  lightning-winged  loves”  had  been 
too  slow  a messenger;  in  her  petulance  with  her 
nurse;  in  those  bursts  of  vehement  feeling  which 
prepare  us  for  the  climax  of  passion  at  the  catas- 
trophe; in  her  invectives  against  Romeo,  when  she 
hears  of  the  death  of  Tybalt;  in  her  indignation 
when  the  Nurse  echoes  those  reproaches,  and  the 
rising  of  her  temper  against  unwonted  contra- 
diction— 

Nurse.  Shame  come  to  Romeo! 

Juliet.  Blistered  be  thy  tongue 

For  such  a wish!  he  was  not  born  to  shame. 


Then  comes  that  revulsion  of  strong  feeling, 
that  burst  of  magnificent  exultation  in  the  virtue 
and  honor  of  her  lover — 

Upon  his  brow  Shame  Is  ashamed  to  sit, 

For  ’tis  a throne  where  Honor  may  be  crown’d 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth! 


And  this,  by  one  of  those  quick  transitions  of 
feeling  which  belong  to  the  character,  is  immedi- 


92  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

ately  succeeded  by  a gush  of  tenderness  and  self- 
reproach — 

Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three  hours’  wife,  have  mangled  it? 

With  the  same  admirable  truth  of  nature,  Juliet 
is  represented  as  at  first  bewildered  by  the  fearful 
destiny  that  closes  round  her;  reverse  is  new  and 
terrible  to  one  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and 
whose  energies  are  yet  untried — 

Alack,  alack,  that  Heaven  should  practice  stratagems 

Upon  so  soft  a subject  as  myself! 

While  a stay  remains  to  her  amid  the  evils  that 
encompass  her,  she  clings  to  it.  She  appeals  to 
her  father,  to  her  mother — 

Good  father,  I beseech  you  on  my  knees, 

Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  one  word! 

****** 

Ah,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away! 

Delay  this  marriage  for  a month,— a week! 

And,  rejected  by  both,  she  throws  herself  upon 
her  nurse  in  all  the  helplessness  of  anguish,  of 
confiding  affection,  of  habitual  dependence — 

O God!  O nurse!  how  shall  this  be  prevented? 

Some  comfort,  nurse! 

The  old  woman,  true  to  her  vocation,  and  fear- 
ful lest  her  share  in  these  events  should  be  dis- 
covered, counsels  her  to  forget  Romeo  and  marry 
Paris;  and  the  moment  which  unveils  to  Juliet 
the  weakness  and  the  baseness  of  her  confidant 


Juliet. 


93 


is  the  moment  which  reveals,  her  to  herself.  She 
does  not  break  into  upbraidings;  it  is  no  moment 
for  anger;  it  is  incredulous  amazement,  succeeded 
by  the  extremity  of  scorn  and  abhorrence,  which 
take  possession  of  her  mind.  She  assumes  at  once 
and  asserts  all  her  own  superiority,  and  rises  to 
majesty  in  the  strength  of  her  despair — 

Juliet.  Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart? 

Nurse.  Ay,  and  from  my  soul,  too;— or  else 
Beshrew  them  both! 

Juliet.  Amen. 

This  final  serving  of  all  the  old  familiar  ties  of 
her  childhood — 

Go,  counsellor, 

Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain! 

and  the  calm,  concentrated  force  of  her  resolve — 
If  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die; 

have  a sublime  pathos.  It  appears  to  me  also  an 
admirable  touch  of  nature,  considering  the  mas- 
ter-passion which,  at  this  moment,  rules  in  Juliet’s 
soul,  that  she  is  as  much  shocked  by  the  Nurse’s 
dispraise  of  her  lover,  as  by  her  wicked,  time- 
serving advice. 

This  scene  is  the  crisis  in  the  character;  and 
henceforth  we  see  Juliet  assume  a new  aspect. 
The  fond,  impatient,  timid  girl  puts  on  the  wife 
and  the  woman:  she  has  learned  heroism  from 
suffering,  and  subtlety  from  oppression.  It  is  idle 
to  criticise  her  dissembling  submission  to  her 
father  and  mother;  a higher  duty  has  taken  place 


94  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

of  that  which  she  owed  to  them;  a more  scared  tie 
has  severed  all  others.  Her  parents  are  pictured 
as  they  are,  that  no  feeling  for  them  may  inter- 
fere in  the  slightest  degree  with  our  sympathy 
for  the  lovers.  In  the  mind  of  Juliet  there  is  no 
struggle  between  her  filial  and  her  conjugal  duties, 
and  there  ought  to  be  none.  The  Friar,  her 
spiritual  director,  dismisses  her  with  these  in- 
structions— 


Go  home,— be  merry,— give  consent 
To  marry  Paris; 


and  she  obeys  him.  Death  and  suffering  in  every 
horrid  form  she  is  ready  to  brave;  without  fear  or 
doubt,  “to  live  an  unstained  wife:”  and  the  artifice 
to  which  she  has  recourse,  which  she  is  even  in- 
structed to  use,  in  no  respect  impairs  the  beauty 
of  the  character;  we  regard  it  with  pain  and  pity, 
but  excuse  it,  as  the  natural  and  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  situation  in  which  she  is  placed. 
Nor  should  we  forget  that  the  dissimulation,  as 
well  as  the  courage  of  Juliet,  though  they  sprang 
from  passion,  are  justified  by  principle — 

My  husband  Is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven; 

How  shall  my  faith  return  again  to  earth, 

Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven? 

In  her  successive  appeals  to  her  father,  her 
mother,  her  nurse,  and  the  Friar,  she  seeks  those 
remedies  which  would  first  suggest  themselves  to 
a gentle  and  virtuous  nature  and  grasps  her  dag- 
ger only  as  the  last  resource  against  dishonor  and 
violated  faith — 


Juliet. 


95 


God  joined  my  heart  with  Romeo’s— thou  our  hands. 
And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal’d, 

Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 

Or  my  true  heart,  with  treacherous  revolt, 

Turn  to  another,— this  shall  slay  them  both! 

Thus,  in  the  very  tempest  and  whirlwind  of  pas- 
sion and  terror,  preserving,  to  a certain  degree, 
that  moral  and  feminine  dignity  which  harmonizes 
with  our  best  feelings,  and  commands  our  un- 
reproved sympathy. 

I reserve  my  remarks  on  the  catastrophe,  which 
demands  separate  consideration;  and  return  to 
trace  from  the  opening  another  and  distinguish- 
ing trait  in  Juliet’s  character. 

In  the  extreme  vivacity  of  her  imagination,  and 
its  influence  upon  the  action,  the  language,  the 
sentiments  of  the  drama,  Juliet  resembles  Portia; 
but  with  this  striking  difference.  In  Portia,  the 
imaginative  power,  though  developed  in  a high 
degree,  is  so  equally  blended  with  the  other  intel- 
lectual and  moral  faculties,  that  it  does  not  give 
us  the  idea  of  success.  It  is  subject  to  her  nobler 
reason;  it  adorns  and  heightens  all  her  feelings; 
it  does  not  overwhelm  or  mislead  them.  In  J uliet, 
it  is  rather  part  of  her  southern  temperament,  con- 
trolling and  modifying  the  rest  of  her  character; 
springing  from  her  sensibility,  hurried  along  by 
her  passions,  animating  her  joys,  darkening  her 
sorrows,  exaggerating  her  terrors,  and,  in  the  end, 
overpowering  her  reason.  With  Juliet,  imagina- 
tion is,  in  the  first  instance,  if  not  the  source, 
the  medium  of  passion;  and  passion  again  kindles 
her  imagination.  It  is  through  the  power  of 
imagination  that  the  eloquence  of  Juliet  is  so 


96  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

vividly  poetical:  that  every  feeling,  every  senti- 
ment comes  to  her,  clothed  in  the  richest  imagery, 
and  is  thus  reflected  from  her  mind  to  ours.  The 
poetry  is  not  here  the  mere  adornment,  the  out- 
ward garnishing  of  the  character;  but  its  result, 
or,  rather,  blended  with  its  essence.  It  is  indivisi- 
ble from  it,  and  interfused  through  it  like  moon- 
light through  the  summer  air.  To  particularize 
is  almost  impossible,  since  the  whole  of  the 
dialogue  appropriated  to  Juliet  is  one  rich  stream 
of  imagery;  she  speaks  in  pictures.  And  some- 
times they  are  crowded  one  upon  another:  thus  in 
the  balcony  scene — 

I have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night; 

It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden, 

Too  like  the  lightning  which  does  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say  it  lightens. 

This  bud  of  love,  by  summer’s  ripening  breath, 

May  prove  a beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 

Again — 

O for  a falconer’s  voice 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again! 

Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud; 

Else  would  I tear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies, 

And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo’s  name. 

Here  there  are  three  images  in  the  course  of  six 
lines.  In  the  same  scene,  the  speech  of  twenty- 
two  lines,  beginning — 

Thou  knowest  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 

contains  but  one  figurative  expression,  the  mask 
ef  night;  and  every  one  reading  this  speech  with 


ROMEO  AND  JUUET. 


Juliet. 


97 


the  context  must  have  felt  the  peculiar  propriety 
of  its  simplicity,  though  perhaps  without  examin- 
ing the  cause  of  an  omission  which  certainly  is 
not  fortuitous.  The  reason  lies  in  the  situation 
and  in  the  feeling  of  the  moment;  where  con- 
fusion, and  anxiety,  and  earnest  self-defence  pre- 
dominate, the  excitability  and  play  of  the  im- 
agination would  be  checked  and  subdued  for  the 
time. 

In  the  soliloquy  of  the  second  act,  where  she  is 
chiding  at  the  Nurse’s  delay — 

O,  she  is  lame!  Love’s  heralds  should  be  thoughts 
That  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun’s  beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low’ring  hills; 

Therefore  do  nimble-pinion’d  doves  draw  Love, 

And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings! 


How  beautiful!  how  the  lines  mount  and  float  re- 
sponsive to  the  sense!  She  goes  on — 

Had  she  affections,  and  warm  youthful  blood, 

She’d  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a ball; 

My  words  should  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 

And  his  to  me! 


The  famous  soliloquy,  “Gallop  apace,  ye  fiery- 
footed  steeds,”  teems  with  luxuriant  imagery. 
The  fond  adjuration,  “Come  night!  come  Romeo! 
come  thou  day  in  night!”  expresses  that  fullness 
of  enthusiastic  admiration  for  her  lover  which 
possesses  her  whole  soul;  but  expresses  it  as  only 
J uliet  could  or  would  have  expressed  it, — in  a bold 
and  beautiful  metaphor.  Let  it  be  remembered, 
that  in  this  speech  Juliet  is  not  supposed  to  be 
addressing  an  audience,  nor  even  a confidant; 


98  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  I confess  I have  been  shocked  at  the  utter 
want  of  taste  and  refinement  in  those  who,  with 
coarse  derision,  or  in  a spirit  of  prudery  yet  more 
gross  and  perverse1,  have  dared  to  comment  on 
this  beautiful  “Hymn  to  the  nights  breathed  out 
by  Juliet  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  her  cham- 
ber. She  is  thinking  aloud;  it  is  the  young  heart 
“triumphing  to  itself  in  words."  In  the  midst  of 
all  the  vehemence  with  which  she  calls  upon  the 
night  to  bring  Romeo  to  her  arms,  there  is  some- 
thing so  almost  infantine  in  her  perfect  simplicity, 
so  playful  and  fantastic  in  the  imagery  and  lan- 
guage, that  the  charm  of  sentiment  and  innocence 
is  thrown  over  the  whole;  and  her  impatience,  to 
use  her  own  expression,  is  truly  that  of  “a  child 
before  a festival,  that  hath  new  robes  and  may  not 
wear  them."  It  is  at  the  very  moment  too  that 
her  whole  heart  and  fancy  are  abandoned  to  bliss- 
ful anticipation,  that  the  Nurse  enters  with  the 
news  of  Romeo’s  banishment;  and  the  immediate 
transition  from  rapture  to  despair  has  a most 
powerful  effect. 

It  is  the  same  shaping  spirit  of  imagination 
which,  in  the  scene  with  the  Friar,  heaps  together 
all  images  of  horror  that  ever  hung  upon  a 
troubled  dream — 

O,  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 

From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower; 

Or  walk  in  thievish  ways;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are;  chain  me  with  roaring  bears; 

Or  shut  me  nightly  in  a charnel-house 
O’ercover’d  quite  with  dead  men’s  rattling  bones; 

Or  bid  me  go  into  a new-made  grave; 

Or  hide  me  with  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud; 

Things  that,  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me  tremble! 


Juliet. 


99 


But  she  immediately  adds— 

And  I will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 

To  live  an  unstrain’d  wife  to  my  sweet  love. 

In  the  scene  where  she  drinks  the  sleeping 
potion,  although  her  spirit  does  not  quail  nor  her 
determination  falter  for  an  instant,  her  vivid 
fancy  conjures  up  one  terrible  apprehension  after 
another,  till  gradually,  and  most  naturally,  in  such 
a mind  once  thrown  off  its  poise,  the  horror  rises 
to  frenzy — her  imagination  realizes  its  own  hide- 
ous creations,  and  she  sees  her  cousin  Tybalt’s 
ghost.* 

In  particular  passages  this  luxuriance  of  fancy 
may  seem  to  wander  into  excess.  For  instance — 

O serpent  heart,  hid  with  a flowery  face! 

Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fair  a cave? 

Beautiful  tyrant!  fiend  angelical! 

Dove-feather’d  raven!  wolfish  ravening  lamb,  etc. 

Yet  this  highly  figurative  and  antithetical  ex- 
uberance of  language  is  defended  by  Schlegel  on 
strong  and  just  grounds;  and  to  me  also  it  appears 
natural,  however  critics  may  argue  against  its  taste 
or  propriety.!  The  warmth  and  vivacity  of 

♦Juliet,  courageously  drinking  off  the  potion,  after  she  has 
placed  before  herself  in  the  most  fearful  colors  all  its  pos- 
sible consequences,  is  compared  by  Schlegel  to  the  famous 
story  of  Alexander  and  his  physician. 

+ Perhaps  ’tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other; 

To  mutter  and  mock  a broken  charm, 

To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm! 

Perhaps  ’tis  tender,  too,  and  pretty, 

At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 

And  what  if  in  a world  of  sin 

jO,  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true!) 

Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom,  save  from  rage  and  pain. 

So  talks  as  it’s  most  used  to  do?— Coleridge. 

These  lines  seem  to  me  to  form  the  truest  comment  on 
Juliet’s  wild  exclamations  against  Rome. 

P 


100 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Juliet’s  fancy,  which  plays  like  a light  over  every 
part  of  her  character — which  animates  every  line 
she  utters- — which  kindles  every  thought  into  a 
picture,  and  clothes  her  emotions  in  visible 
images,  would  naturally,  under  strong  and  un- 
usual excitement,  and  in  the  conflict  of  opposing 
sentiments,  run  into  some  extravagance  of  dic- 
tion.* 

With  regard  to  the  termination  of  the  play, 
which  has  been  a subject  of  much  critical  argu- 
ment, it  is  well  known  that  Shakspeare,  following 
the  old  English  versions,  has  departed  from  the 
original  story  of  Da  Porta;t  and  I am  inclined 

* “The  censure,”  observes  Schlegel,  “originates  in  a fanci- 
less  way  of  thinking,  to  which  everything  appears  unnatural 
that  does  not  suit  its  tame  insipidity.  Hence  an  idea  has 
been  formed  of  simple  and  natural  pathos,  which  consists  in 
exclamations  destitute  of  imagery,  and  nowise  elevated 
above  everyday  life;  but  energetic  passions  electrify  the 
whole  mental  powers,  and  will,  consequently,  in  highly- 
favored  natures  express  themselves  in  an  ingenious  and 
figurative  manner.” 

t The  “Giulietta”  of  Luigi  da  Porta  was  written  about 
1520.  In  a popular  little  book,  published  in  1565,  thirty 
years  before  Shakspeare  wrote  his  tragedy,  the  name  of 
Juliet  occurs  as  an  example  of  faithful  love,  and  is  thus  ex- 
plained by  a note  in  the  margin:  “Juliet,  a noble  maiden  of 
the  city  of  Verona,  which  loved  Romeo,  eldest  son  of  the 
Lord  Monteschi;  and  being  privily  married  together,  he  at 
last  poisoned  himself  for  love  of  her;  she,  for  sorrow  of  his 
death,  slew  herself  with  his  dagger.”  This  note,  which 
furnishes,  in  brief,  the  whole  argument  of  Shakspeare’s 
play,  might  possibly  have  made  the  first  impression  on  his 
fancy.  In  the  novel  of  Da  Porta  the  catastrophe  is  alto- 
gether different.  After  the  death  of  Romeo,  the  Friar  Lo- 
renzo endeavors  to  persuade  Juliet  to  leave  the  fatal  monu- 
ment. She  refuses;  and  throwing  herself  back  on  the  dead 
body  of  her  husband,  she  resolutely  holds  her  breath  and 
dies. — “E  voltatasi  al  giacente  corpi  di  Romeo,  il  cui  capo 
sopra  un  origliere,  che  con  lei  nell  area  era  stato  lasciato, 
posto  aveva;  gli  occhi  meglio  rinchiusi  avendogli,  e di 
lagrime  il  freddo  volto  bagnadogli,  disse:  ‘Che  debbo  senza 
di  te  in  vita  pill  fare,  signor  mio?  e che  altro  mi  resta  verso 
te  se  non  colla  mia  morte  seguirti?’  E detto  questo,  la  sua 
gran  sciagura  nell’  animo  recatasi,  e la  perdita  del  caro 
amante  ricordandosi.  deliberando  di  nifi  non  viv«re.  raccolto 
a se  il  fiato,  e per  buono  gpazio  tenutolo,  e poseia  con  un 


Juliet. 


101 


to  believe  that  Da  Porta,  in  making  Juliet  waken 
from  her  trance  while  Romeo  yet  lives,  and  in 
his  terrible  final  scene  between  the  lovers,  has 
himself  departed  from  the  old  tradition,  and,  as 
a romance,  has  certainly  improved  it;  but  that 
which  is  effective  in  a narrative  is  not  always  cal- 
culated for  the  drama;  and  I cannot  but  agree 
with  Schlegel,  that  Shakspeare  has  done  well  and 
wisely  in  adhering  to  the  old  story.  Can  we  doubt 
for  a moment  that  he  who  has  given  us  the  catas- 
trophe of  Othello,  and  the  tempest  scene  in  Lear, 
might  also  have  adopted  these  additional  circum- 
stances of  horror  in  the  fate  of  the  lovers,  and 
have  so  treated  them  as  to  harrow  up  our  very 
soul — had  it  been  his  object  to  do  so?  But  appar- 
ently it  was  not . The  tale  is  one — 

Such  as,  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart  destroys 

All  pain  but  pity. 

It  is  in  truth  a tale  of  love  and  sorrow,  not  of 
anguish  and  terror.  We  behold  the  catastrophe 
afar  off  with  scarcely  a wish  to  avert  it.  Romeo 

gran  grido  fuori  mandandolo,  sopra  il  morto  corpo,  morta 
ricadde.” 

There  is  nothing  so  improbable  in  the  story  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  as  to  make  us  doubt  the  tradition  that  it  is  a 
real  fact.  “The  Veronese,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his 
letters  from  Verona,  “are  tenacious  to  a degree  of  the  truth 
of  Juliet’s  story,  insisting  on  the  fact,  giving  the  date  1303, 
and  showing  a tomb.  It  is  a plain,  open,  and  partly  decayed 
sarcophagus,  with  withered  leaves  in  it,  in  a wild  and  deso- 
late conventual  garden — once  a cemetery,  now  ruined,  to  the 
very  graves!  The  situation  struck  me  as  very  appropriate 
to  the  legend,  being  blighted  as  their  love.”  He  might  have 
added,  that  when  Verona  itself,  with  its  amphitheatre  and 
its  Palladian  structures,  lies  level  with  the  earth,  the  very 
spot  on  which  it  stood  will  still  be  consecrated  by  the 
memory  of  Juliet. 

When  in  Italy,  I met  a gentleman  who,  being  then  “dans 
le  genre  romantique wore  a fragment  of  Juliet’s  tomb  set 
in  a ring. 


102  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  Juliet  must  die:  their  destiny  is  fulfilled:  they 
have  quaffed  off  the  cup  of  life,  with  all  its  infinite 
of  joys  and  agonies,  in  one  intoxicating  draught. 
What  have  they  to  do  more  upon  this  earth? 
Young,  innocent,  loving  and  beloved,  they  de- 
scend together  into  the  tomb:  but  Shakspeare  has 
made  that  tomb  a shrine  of  martyred  and  sainted 
affection  consecrated  for  the  worship  of  all  hearts 
— not  a dark  charnel-vault,  haunted  by  spectres 
of  pain,  rage,  and  desperation.  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  pictured  lovely  in  death  as  in  life;  the  sym- 
pathy they  inspire  does  not  oppress  us  with  that 
suffocating  sense  of  horror  which  in  the  altered 
tragedy  makes  the  fall  of  the  curtain  a relief;  but 
all  pain  is  lost  in  the  tenderness  and  poetic  beauty 
of  the  picture.  Romeo’s  last  speech  over  his  bride 
is  not  like  the  raving  of  a disappointed  boy:  in 
its  deep  pathos,  its  rapturous  despair,  its  glowing 
imagery,  there  is  the  very  luxury  of  life  and  love. 
Juliet,  who  had  drunk  off  the  sleeping  potion  in 
a fit  of  frenzy,  wakes  calm  and  collected — 

I do  remember  well  where  I should  be, 

And  there  I am:— Where  Is  my  Romeo? 

The  profound  slumber  in  which  her  senses  have 
been  steeped  for  so  many  hours  has  tranquillized 
her  nerves,  and  stilled  the  fever  in  her  blood;  she 
wakes  “like  a sweet  child  who  has  been  dreaming 
of  something  promised  to  it  by  its  mother/’  and 
opens  her  eyes  to  ask  for  it — 

....  Where  is  my  Romeo? 

She  is  answered  at  once — 

Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  here  lies  dead. 


Juliet. 


103: 

This  is  enough:  she  sees  at  once  the  whole  horror 
of  her  situation — she  sees  it  with  a quiet  and  re- 
solved despair — she  utters  no  reproach  against  the 
Friar — makes  no  inquiries,  no  complaints,  except 
that  affecting  remonstrance — 

O churl— drink  all,  and  leave  no  friendly  drop 

To  help  me  after! 

All  that  is  left  her  is  to  die,  and  she  dies.  The 
poem,  which  opened  with  the  enmity  of  the  two 
families,  closes  with  their  reconciliation  over  the 
breathless  remains  of  their  children;  and  no 
violent,  frightful,  or  discordant  feeling  is  suffered 
to  mingle  with  that  soft  impression  of  melancholy 
left  within  the  heart,  and  which  Schlegel  com- 
pares to  one  long,  endless  sigh. 

“A  youthful  passion,”  says  Goethe  (alluding  to 
one  of  his  own  early  attachments),  “which  is  con- 
ceived and  cherished  without  any  certain  object, 
may  be  compared  to  a shell  thrown  from  a mortar 
by  night:  it  rises  calmly  in  a brilliant  track,  and 
seems  to  mix  and  even  to  dwell  for  a moment  with 
the  stars  of  heaven;  but  at  length  it  falls,  it  bursts, 
consuming  and  destroying  all  around,  even  as 
itself  expires.” 

******* 

To  conclude:  love  considered  under  its  poetical 
aspect  is  the  union  of  passion  and  imagination; 
and  accordingly  to  one  of  these,  or  to  both,  all 
the  qualities  of  Juliet’s  mind  and  heart  (unfolding 
and  varying  as  the  action  of  the  drama  proceeds) 
may  be  finally  traced:  the  former  concentrating 
all  those  natural  impulses,  fervent  affections,  and 
high  energies,  which  lend  the  character  its  in- 


104  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

ternal  charm,  its  moral  power,  and  individual  in- 
terest; the  latter  diverging  into  all  those  splendid 
and  luxuriant  accompaniments  which  invest  it 
with  its  external  glow,  its  beauty,  its  vigor,  its 
freshness,  and  its  truth. 

With  all  this  immense  capacity  of  affection  and 
imagination,  there  is  a deficiency  of  reflection 
and  of  moral  energy  arising  from  previous  habit 
and  education;  and  the  action  of  the  drama,  while 
it  serves  to  develop  the  character,  appears  but  its 
natural  and  necessary  result.  “Le  mystere  de 
Texistence,”  said  Madame  de  Stael  to  her  daugh- 
ter, ‘Vest  le  rapport  de  nos  erreurs  avec  nos 
peines” 


HELENA. 


IN  the  character  of  Juliet  we  have  seen  the  pas- 
sionate and  the  imaginative  blended  in  an 
equal  degree,  and  in  the  highest  conceivable 
degree  as  combined  with  delicate  female  nature. 
In  Helena  we  have  a modification  of  character 
altogether  distinct;  allied,  indeed,  to  Juliet  as  a 
picture  of  fervent,  enthusiastic,  self-forgetting 
love,  but  differing  wholly  from  her  in  other  re- 
spects; for  Helen  is  the  union  of  strength  of 
passion  with  strength  of  character. 

“To  be  tremblingly  alive  to  gentle  impressions, 
and  yet  be  able  to  preserve,  when  the  prosecution 
of  a design  requires  it,  an  immovable  heart  amidst 
even  the  most  imperious  causes  of  subduing  emo- 
tion, is  perhaps  not  an  impossible  constitution  of 
mind,  but  it  is  the  utmost  and  rarest  endowment 
of  humanity.”*  Such  a character,  almost  as  dif- 
ficult to  delineate  in  fiction  as  to  find  in  real  life, 
has  Shakspeare  given  us  in  Helena;  touched  with 
the  most  soul-subduing  pathos,  and  developed 
with  the  most  consummate  skill. 

Helena,  as  a woman,  is  more  passionate  than 
imaginative;  and,  as  a character  she  bears  the 
same  relation  to  Juliet  that  Isabel  bears  to  Portia. 
There  is  equal  unity  of  purpose  and  effect,  with 
much  less  of  the  glow  of  imagery  and  the  external 
coloring  of  poetry  in  the  sentiments,  language, 

* Foster’s  “Essays.” 


105 


106  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  details.  It  is  passion  developed  under  its 
most  profound  and  serious  aspect;  as  in  Isabella 
we  have  the  serious  and  the  thoughtful,  not  the 
brilliant  side  of  intellect.  Both  Helena  and  Isabel 
are  distinguished  by  high  mental  powers,  tinged 
with  a melancholy  sweetness;  but  in  Isabella  the 
serious  and  energetic  part  of  the  character  is 
founded  in  religious  principle,  in  Helena  it  is 
founded  in  deep  passion. 

There  never  was,  perhaps,  a more  beautiful 
picture  of  a woman’s  love,  cherished  in  secret, 
not  self-consuming  in  silent  languishment — not 
pining  in  thought — not  passive  and  “desponding 
over  its  idol”- — but  patient  and  hopeful,  strong 
in  its  own  intensity,  and  sustained  by  its  own  fond 
faith.  The  passion  here  reposes  upon  itself  for 
all  its  interest;  it  derives  nothing  from  art  or 
ornament  or  circumstance;  it  has  nothing  of  the 
picturesque  charm  or  glowing  romance  of  Juliet: 
nothing  of  the  poetical  splendor  of  Portia  or  the 
vestal  grandeur  of  Isabel.  The  situation  of 
Helena  is  the  most  painful  and  degrading  in 
which  a woman  can  be  placed.  She  is  poor  and 
lowly;  she  loves  a man  who  is  far  her  superior  in 
rank,  who  repays  her  love  with  indifference,  and 
rejects  her  hand  with  scorn.  She  marries  him 
against  his  will;  he  leaves  her  with  contumely  on 
the  day  of  their  marriage,  and  makes  his  return 
to  her  arms  depend  on  conditions  apparently  im- 
possible.* All  the  circumstances  and  details  with 
which  Helena  is  surrounded  are  shocking  to  our 

* I have  read  somewhere  that  the  play  of  which  Helena 
is  the  heroine  (“All’s  Well  that  Ends  Well”)  was  at  first 
entitled  by  Shakspeare  “Love’s  Labor  Won.”  Why  the  title 
was  altered,  or  by  whom,  I cannot  discover. 


Helena. 


107 


feelings  and  wounding  to  our  delicacy;  and  yet  the 
beauty  of  the  character  is  made  to  triumph  over 
all;  and  Shakspeare,  resting  for  all  his  effect  on  its 
internal  resources  and  its  genuine  truth  and  sweet- 
ness, has  not  even  availed  himself  of  some  extra- 
neous advantages  with  which  Helen  is  represented 
in  the  original  story.  She  is  the  Giletta  di  Nar- 
bonna  of  Boccaccio.  In  the  Italian  tale,  Giletta 
is  the  daughter  of  a celebrated  physician  attached 
to  the  court  of  Roussillon;  she  is  represented  as 
a rich  heiress,  who  rejects  many  suitors  of  worth 
and  rank  in  consequence  of  her  secret  attachment 
to  the  young  Bertram  de  Roussillon.  She  cures 
the  King  of  France  of  a grievous  distemper,  by  one 
of  her  father’s  prescriptions;  and  she  asks  and  re- 
ceives as  her  reward  the  young  Count  of  Roussillon 
as  her  wedded  husband.  He  forsakes  her  on  their 
wedding  day,  and  she  retires,  by  his  order,  to  his 
territory  of  Roussillon.  There  she  is  received  with 
honor,  takes  state  upon  her  in  her  husband’s 
absence  as  the  “lady  of  the  land,”  administers 
justice,  and  rules  her  lord’s  dominions  so  wisely 
and  so  well,  that  she  is  universally  loved  and  rev- 
erenced by  his  subjects.  In  the  meantime,  the 
count,  instead  of  rejoining  her,  flies  to  Tuscany, 
and  the  rest  of  the  story  is  closely  followed  in  the 
drama.  The  beauty,  wisdom,  and  royal  demeanor 
of  Giletta  are  charmingly  described,  as  well  as  her 
fervent  love  for  Bertram.  But  Helena,  in  the 
play,  derives  no  dignity  or  interest  from  place  or 
circumstance,  and  rests  for  all  our  sympathy  and 
respect  solely  upon  the  truth  and  intensity  of  her 
affections.  She  is,  indeed,  represented  to  us  as 
one — 


108  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes;  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive; 
Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorn’d  to  serve 
Humbly  call’d  mistress. 

As  her  dignity  is  derived  from  mental  power, 
without  any  alloy  of  pride,  so  her  humility  has  a 
peculiar  grace.  If  she  feels  and  repines  over  her 
lowly  birth,  it  is  merely  as  an  obstacle  which 
separates  her  from  the  man  she  loves.  She  is  more 
sensible  to  his  greatness  than  her  own  littleness: 
she  is  continually  looking  from  herself  up  to  him, 
not  from  him  down  to  herself.  She  has  been  bred 
up  under  the  same  roof  with  him;  she  has  adored 
him  from  infancy.  Her  love  is  not  “th’  infection 
taken  in  at  the  eyes,"  nor  kindled  by  youthful 
romance:  it  appears  to  have  taken  root  in  her 
being,  to  have  grown  with  her  years,  and  to  have 
gradually  absorbed  all  her  thoughts  and  faculties, 
until  her  fancy  “carries  no  favor  in  it  but  Ber- 
tram’s," and  “there  is  no  living,  none,  if  Bertram 
be  away." 

It  may  be  said  that  Bertram,  arrogant,  wayward, 
and  heartless,  does  not  justify  this  ardent  and 
deep  devotion.  But  Helena  does  not  behold  him 
with  our  eyes,  but  as  he  is  “sanctified  in  her  idol- 
atrous fancy."  Dr.  Johnson  says  he  cannot  recon- 
cile himself  to  a man  who  marries  Helena  like  a 
coward,  and  leaves  her  like  a profligate.  This  is 
much  too  severe;  in  the  first  place,  there  is  no 
necessity  that  we  should  reconcile  ourselves  to  him. 
In  this  consists  a part  of  the  wonderful  beauty 
of  the  character  of  Helena — a part  of  its  womanly- 
truth,  which  Johnson,  who  accuses  Bertram,  and 
those  who  so  plausibly  defend  him,  did  not  under- 


Helena. 


109 


stand.  If  it  never  happened  in  real  life  that  a 
woman,  richly  endued  with  heaven’s  best  gifts, 
loved  with  all  her  heart,  and  soul,  and  strength, 
a man  unequal  to,  or  unworthy  of  her,  and  to 
whose  faults  herself  alone  was  blind,  I would,  give 
up  the  point;  but  if  it  be  in  nature,  why  should  it 
not  be  in  Shakspeare?  We  are  not  to  look  into 
Bertram’s  character  for  the  spring  and  source  of 
Helena’s  love  for  him,  but  into  her  own.  She 
loves  Bertram  because  she  loves  him!  a woman’s 
reason,  but  here,  and  sometimes  elsewhere,  all 
sufficient. 

And  although  Helena  tell  herself  that  she 
loves  in  vain,  a conviction  stronger  than  reason 
tells  her  that  she  does  not:  her  love  is  like  a re- 
ligion, pure,  holy,  and  deep:  the  blessedness  to 
which  she  has  lifted  her  thoughts  is  forever  be- 
fore her;  to  despair  would  be  a crime — it  would 
be  to  cast  herself  away  and  die.  The  faith  of  her 
affection,  combining  with  the  natural  energy  of 
her  character,  believing  all  things  possible,  makes 
them  so.  It  could  say  to  the  mountain  of  pride 
which  stands  between  her  and  her  hopes,  “Be  thou 
removed!”  and  it  is  removed.  This  is  the  solution 
of  her  behavior  in  the  marriage  scene,  where  Ber- 
tram, with  obvious  reluctance  and  disdain,  accepts 
her  hand,  which  the  king,  his  feudal  lord  and 
guardian  forces  on  him.  Her  maidenly  feeling 
is  at  first  shocked,  and  she  shrinks  back — 

That  you  are  well  restor’d,  my  lord,  I am  glad; 

Let  the  rest  go. 


But  shall  she  weakly  relinquish  the  golden  oppor- 
tunity, and  dash  the  cup  from  her  lips  at  the 


110 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

moment  it  is  presented?  Shall  she  cast  away  the 
treasure  for  which  she  has  ventured  both  life  and 
honor,  when  it  is  just  within  her  grasp?  Shall  she, 
after  compromising  her  feminine  delicacy  by  the 
public  disclosure  of  her  preference,  be  thrust-back 
into  shame,  “to  blush  out  the  remainder  of  her 
life,”  and  die  a poor,  lost,  scorned  thing?  This 
would  be  very  pretty  and  interesting,  and  charac- 
teristic in  Viola  or  Ophelia,  but  not  at  all  con- 
sistent with  that  high,  determined  spirit,  that 
moral  energy,  with  which  Helena,  is  portrayed. 
Pride  is  the  only  obstacle  opposed  to  her.  She  is 
not  despised  and  rejected  as  a woman,  but  as  a 
poor  physician's  daughter;  and  this,  to  an  under- 
standing so  clear,  so  strong,  so  just  as  Helena’s,  is 
not  felt  as  an  unpardonable  insult.  The  mere 
pride  of  rank  and  birth  is  a prejudice  of  which  she 
cannot  comprehend  the  force,  because  her  mind 
towers  so  immeasurably  above  it,  and,  compared 
to  the  infinite  love  which  swells  within  her  own 
bosom,  it  sinks  into  nothing.  She  cannot  con- 
ceive that  he  to  whom  she  has  devoted  her  heart 
and  truth,  her  soul,  her  life,  her  service,  must  not 
one  day  love  her  in  return;  and  once  her  own  be- 
yond the  reach  of  fate,  that  her  cares,  her  caresses, 
her  unwearied,  patient  tenderness,  will  not  at  last 
“win  her  lord  to  look  upon  her” — 

....  For  time  will  bring  on  summer, 

When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 

And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp! 

It  is  this  fond  faith  which,  hoping  all  things, 
enables  her  to  endure  all  things;  which  hallows 
and  dignifies  the  surrender  of  her  woman’s  pride, 


Helena.  Ill 

making  it  a sacrifice  on  which  virtue  and  love 
throw  a mingled  incense. 

The  scene  in  which  the  Countess  extorts  from 
Helen  the  confession  of  her  love  must,  as  an  illus- 
tration, he  given  here.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  finest 
in  the  whole  play,  and  brings  out  all  the  striking 
points  of  Helen’s  character,  to  which  I have 
already  alluded.  We  must  not  fail  to  remark,  that 
though  the  acknowledgment  is  wrung  from  her 
with  an  agony  which  seems  to  convulse  her  whole 
being,  yet  when  once  she  has  given  its  solemn 
utterance,  she  recovers  her  presence  of  mind,  and 
asserts  her  native  dignity.  In  her  justification  of 
her  feelings  and  her  conduct  there  is  neither 
sophistry,  nor  self-deception,  nor  presumption, 
but  a noble  simplicity  combined  with  the  most 
impassioned  earnestness;  while  the  language  natu- 
rally rises  in  its  eloquent  beauty,  as  the  tide  of 
feeling,  now  first  let  loose  from  the  bursting  heart, 
comes  pouring  forth  in  words.  The  whole  scene 
is  wonderfully  beautiful — 

Helena.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam? 

Countess.  You  know,  Helen,  I am  a mother  to  you. 

'Helena.  Mine  honorable  mistress. 

Countess.  Nay,  a mother. 

Why  not  a mother?  When  I said  a mother, 

Methought  you  saw  a serpent;  what’s  in  mother 
That  you  start  at  it?  I say,  I am  your  mother; 

And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine;  ’tis  often  seen 
Adoption  strives  with  nature;  and  choice  breeds 
A native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds. 

You  ne’er  oppress’d  me  with  a mother’s  groan, 

Yet  I express  to  you  a mother’s  care;— 

God’s  mercy,  maiden!  does  it  curd  thy  blood 
To  say  I am  thy  mother?  What’s  the  matter, 


112 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

That  this  distemper’d  messenger  of  wet, 

The  many-color’d  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye? 

Why?— that  you  are  my  daughter? 

Helena.  That  I am  not. 

Countess . I say,  I am  your  mother. 

Helena.  Pardon,  madam; 

The  Count  Roussillon  cannot  be  my  brother. 

I am  from  humble,  he  from  honor’d  name; 

No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble: 

My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is;  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die. 

He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Countess.  Nor  I your  mother? 

Helena.  You  are  my  mother,  madam;  would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother) 

Indeed  my  mother,  or,  were  you  both  our  mothers, 

I care  no  more  for,  than  I do  for  heaven,* 

So  I were  not  his  sister;  can’t  no  other 
But  I,  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother? 

Countess.  Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law; 
God  shield!  you  mean  it  not!  daughter  and  mother 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse;  what,  pale  again? 

My  fear  hath  catch’d  your  fondness;  now  I see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears’  head.  Now  to  all  sense  ’tis  gross 
You  love  my  son;  invention  is  asham’d, 

Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 

To  say,  thou  dost  not;  therefore  tell  me  true. 

But  tell  me  then,  ’tis  so,— for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other. 

Speak,  is’t  so? 

If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a goodly  clue! 

If  it  be  not,  forswear  *t;  howe’er,  I charge  thee, 

As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thy  avail, 

To  tell  me  truly. 

Helena.  Good  madam,  pardon  me! 

Countess.  Do  you  love  my  son? 

Helena.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress! 

Countess.  Love  you  my  son? 

Helena.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam? 

Countess.  Go  not  about;  my  love  hath  In  ’t  a bond, 

* I.e.t  I care  as  much  for  as  7 care  for  heaven. 


Helena. 


113 


Whereof  the  world  takes  note;  come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach’d. 

Helena,  Then  I confess. 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 

That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 

I love  your  son:— 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest;  so’s  my  love. 

Be  not  offended;  for  it  hurts  not  him 
That  he  is  loved  of  me;  I follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit; 

Nor  would  I have  him  till  I do  deserve  him: 

Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 

I know  I love  in  vain;  strive  against  hope; 

Yet  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve 
I still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 

And  lack  not  to  love  still;  thus,  Indian-like, 

Religious  in  mine  error,  I adore 

The  sun  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 

But  knows  of  him  no  more.  My  dearest  madam, 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 

For  loving  where  you  do;  but,  if  yourself, 

Whose  aged  honor  cites  a virtuous  youth, 

Did  ever  in  so  true  a flame  of  liking 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love;  O then  give  pity 
To  her  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose; 

That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies, 

But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

This  old  Countess  of  Koussillon  is  a charming 
sketch.  She  is  like  one  of  Titian’s  old  women, 
who  still,  amid  their  wrinkles,  remind  us  of  that 
soul  of  beauty  and  sensibility  which  must  have 
animated  them  when  young.  She  is  a fine  con- 
trast to  Lady  Capulet — benign,  cheerful,  and 
affectionate;  she  has  a benevolent  enthusiasm 
which  neither  age,  nor  sorrow,  nor  pride  can  wear 
away.  Thus,  when  she  is  brought  to  believe  that 


114  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Helen  nourishes  a secret  attachment  for  her  son; 
she  observes — 

Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I was  young! 

This  thorn 

Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong, 

It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature’s  truth, 

When  love’s  strong  passion  is  impress’d  in  youth. 

Her  fond,  maternal  love  for  Helena,  whom  she 
has  brought  up,  her  pride  in  her  good  qualities, 
overpowering  all  her  own  prejudices  of  rank  and 
birth,  are  most  natural  in  such  a mind;  and  her 
indignation  against  her  son,  however  strongly  ex' 
pressed,  never  forgets  the  mother — 

What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband?  He  cannot  thrive 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. 

Which  of  them  both 

Is  dearest  to  me — I have  no  skill  in  sense 
To  make  distinction. 

This  is  very  skilfully,  as  well  as  delicately  con- 
ceived. In  rejecting  those  poetical  and  accidental 
advantages  which  Giletta  possesses  in  the  original 
story,  Shakspeare  has  substituted  the  beautiful 
character  of  the  Countess;  and  he  has  contrived 
that,  as  the  character  of  Helena  should  rest  for 
its  internal  charm  on  the  depth  of  her  own  affec- 
tions, so1  it  should  depend  for  its  external  interest 
on  the  affection  she  inspires.  The  enthusiastic 
tenderness  of  the  Countess,  the  admiration  and 
respect  of  the  king,  Lafeu,  and  all  who  are 
brought  in  connection  with  her,  make  amends 
for  the  humiliating  neglect  of  Bertram,  and  cast 
round  Helen  that  collateral  light  which  Giletta 


Helena. 


115 


in  the  story  owes  to  other  circumstances — striking 
indeed,  and  well  imagined,  but  not,  I think,  so 
finely  harmonizing  with  the  character. 

It  is  also  very  natural  that  Helen,  with  the  in- 
tuitive discernment  of  a pure  and  upright  mind, 
and  the  penetration  of  a quick-witted  woman, 
should  be  the  first  to  detect  the  falsehood  and 
cowardice  of  the  boaster  Parolles,  who  imposes  on 
every  one  else. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  there  is  less  of 
poetical  imagery  in  this  play  than  in  many  of  the 
others.  A certain  solidity  in  Helen’s  character 
takes  place  of  the  ideal  power:  and,  with  con- 
sistent truth  of  keeping,  the  same  predominance 
of  feeling  over  fancy,  of  the  reflective  over  the 
imaginative  faculty,  is  maintained  through  the 
whole  dialogue.  Yet  the  finest  passages  in  the 
serious  scenes  are  those  appropriated  to  her. 
They  are  familiar,  and  celebrated  as  quotations: 
but,  fully  to  understand  their  beauty  and  truth, 
they  should  be  considered  relatively  to  her  charac- 
ter and  situation.  Thus,  when  in  speaking  of  Ber- 
tram she  says  “that  he  is  one  to  whom  she  wishes 
well,”  the  consciousness  of  the  disproportion  be- 
tween her  words  and  her  feelings  draws  from  her 
this  beautiful  and  affecting  observation,  so  just 
in  itself,  and  so  true  to  her  situation  and  to  the 
sentiment  which  fills  her  whole  heart — 

’Tis  pity 

That  wishing  well  had  not  a body  in  ’t 

Which  might  be  felt:  that  we,  the  poorer  born, 

Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 

Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 

And  act  what  we  must  only  think,  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 


116  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Some  of  her  general  reflections  have  a sententi- 
ous depth,  and  a contemplative  melancholy  which 
remind  us  of  Isabella — 

Our  remedies  oft  in  themselves  do  lie, 

Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven:  the  fatal  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 

Impossible  be  strange  events  to  those 

That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense;  and  do  suppose 

What  hath  been  cannot  be. 

HE  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher, 

Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister: 

So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown, 

When  judges  have  been  babes. 

Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises;  and  oft  it  hits 
Where  hope  is  coldest  and  despair  most  sits. 

Her  sentiments  in  the  same  manner  are  remark- 
able* for  the  union  of  profound  sense  with  the 
most  passionate  feeling;  and  when  her  language 
is  figurative,  which  is  seldom,  the  picture  pre- 
sented to  us  is  invariably  touched  either  with  a 
serious,  a lofty,  or  a melancholy  beauty.  For 
instance — 


It  were  all  one 

That  I should  love  a bright  particular  star, 

And  think  to  wed  it— he’s  so  far  above  me. 

And  when  she  is  brought  to  choose  a husband 
from  among  the  young  lords  at  the  court,  her 
heart  having  already  made  its  election,  the 
strangeness  of  that  very  privilege  for  which  she 
had  ventured  all  nearly  overpowers  her,  and  she 
says  beautifully — 


Helena, 


117 


The  blushes  on  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 

“We  blush  that  thou  shouldst  choose; — but  he  refused. 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  that  cheek  for  ever, 

We’ll  ne’er  come  there  again!” 

In  her  soliloquy  after  she  has  been  forsaken  by 
Bertram,  the  beauty  lies  in  the  intense  feeling,  the 
force  and  simplicity  of  the  expressions.  There  is 
little  imagery,  and  wherever  it  occurs,  it  is  as  bold 
as  it  is  beautiful,  and  springs  out  of  the  energy 
of  the  sentiment  and  the  pathos  of  the  situation. 
She  has  been  reading  his  cruel  letter — 

Till  I have  no  wife  I have  nothing  in  France. 

’Tis  better! 

Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife! 

Thou  shalt  have  none,  Roussillon,  none  in  France; 

Then  hast  thou  all  again.  Poor  lord!  is’t  I 

That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 

Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 

Of  the  non-sparing  war?  And  is  it  I 

That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 

Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 

Of  smoky  muskets?  O you  leaden  messengers, 

That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 

Fly  with  false  aim!  move  the  still-piercing  air 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord! 

Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I set  him  there; 

Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 

I am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 

And  though  I kill  him  not,  I am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected:  better  ’twere 
I met  the  ravin’  lion  when  he  roared 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger;  better  ’twere 
That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 
Were  mine  at  once. 

No,  no,  although 

The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 

And  angels  officed  all:  I will  be  gone. 


Though  I cannot  go  the  length  of  those  who 


118  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

have  defended  Bertram  on  almost  every  point, 
still  I think  the  censure  which  Johnson  has  passed 
on  the  character  is  much  too  severe.  Bertram  is 
certainly  not  a pattern  hero  of  romance,  but  full 
of  faults  such  as  we  meet  with  every  day  in  men 
of  his  age  and  class.  He  is  a bold,  ardent,  self- 
willed  youth,  just  dismissed  into  the  world  from 
domestic  indulgence,  with  an  excess  of  aristo- 
cratic and  military  pride,  but  not  without  some 
sense  of  true  honor  and  generosity.  I have  lately 
read  a defense  of  Bertram’s  character,  written 
with  much  elegance  and  plausibility.  “The  young 
Count,”  says  this  critic,  “comes  before  us  possessed 
of  a good  heart,  and  of  no  mean  capacity,  but  with 
a haughtiness  which  threatens  to  dull  the  kinder 
passions  and  to  cloud  the  intellect.  This  is  the 
inevitable  consequence  of  an  illustrious  education. 
The  glare  of  his  birthright  has  dazzled  his  young 
faculties.  Perhaps  the  first  words  he  could  dis- 
tinguished were  from  the  important  nurse,  giving 
elaborate  directions  about  his  lordship’s  pap. 
As  soon  as  he  could  walk,  a crowd  of  submissive 
vassals  doffed  their  caps,  and  hailed  his  first 
appearance  on  his  legs.  His  spelling-book  had 
the  arms  of  the  family  emblazoned  on  the  cover. 
He  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  himself  called 
the  great,  the  mighty  son  of  Roussillon,  ever  since 
he  was  a helpless  child.  A succession  of  com- 
placent tutors  would  by  no  means  destroy  the 
illusion,  and  it  is  from  their  hands  that  Shak- 
speare  receives  him  while  yet  in  his  minority.  An 
overweening  pride  of  birth  is  Bertram’s  great 
foible.  To  cure  him  of  this,  Shakspeare  sends  him 
to  the  wars  that  he  may  win  fame  for  himself,  and 


Helena. 


119 


thus  exchange  a shadow  for  a reality.  There 
the  great  dignity  that  his  valor  acquired  for 
him  places  him  on  an  equality  with  any  one 
of  his  ancestors,  and  he  is  no  longer  beholden  to 
them  alone  for  the  world’s  observance.  Thus,  in 
his  own  person  he  discovers  there  is  something 
better  than  mere  hereditary  honors,  and  his  heart 
is  prepared  to  acknowledge  that  the  entire  devo- 
tion of  a Helen’s  love  is  of  more  worth  than  the 
court-bred  smiles  of  a princess.”* 

It  is  not  extraordinary  that,  in  the  first  instance, 
his  spirit  should  revolt  at  the  idea  of  marrying  his 
mother’s  “waiting  gentlewoman,”  or  that  he 
should  refuse  her;  yet  when  the  king,  his  feudal 
lord,  whose  despotic  authority  was  in  this  case 
legal  and  indisputable,  threatens  him  with  the 
extremity  of  his  wrath  and  vengeance,  that  he 
should  submit  himself  to  a hard  necessity  was 
too  consistent  with  the  manners  of  the  time  to  be 
called  cowardice . Such  forced  marriages  were  not 
uncommon  even  in  our  own  country,  when  the 
right  of  wardship,  now  vested  in  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, was  exercised  with  uncontrolled  and  often 
cruel  despotism  by  the  sovereign. 

There  is  an  old  ballad  in  which  the  king  bestows 
a maid  of  low  degree  on  a noble  of  his  court,  and 
the  undisguised  scorn  and  reluctance  of  the 
knight  and  the  pertinacity  of  the  lady  are  in 
point — 

He  brought  her  down  full  forty  pound 
Tyed  up  within  a glove: 

“Fair  maid,  I’ll  give  the  same  to  thee, 

Go  seek  another  love.” 

* “New  Monthly  Magazine,”  Vol.  IV. 


120  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

“O,  I’ll  have  none  of  your  gold,”  she  said, 

Nor  I’ll  have  none  of  your  fee; 

But  your  fair  bodye  I must  have, 

The  king  hath  granted  me.” 

Sir  William  ran  and  fetched  her  then 
Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 

Saying,  ‘‘Fair  maid,  take  this  to  thee, 

My  fault  will  ne’er  be  told.” 

“’Tis  not  the  gold  that  shall  me  tempt,” 

These  words  then  answered  she: 

“But  your  own  bodye  I must  have, 

The  king  hath  granted  me.” 

“Would  I had  drank  the  water  clear, 

When  I did  drink  the  wine, 

Rather  than  any  shepherd’s  brat 
Should  be  a ladye  of  mine!”  * 

Bertram’s  disgust  at  the  tyranny  which  has 
made  his  freedom  the  payment  of  another’s  debt, 
which  has  united  him  to  a woman  whose  merits 
are  not  towards  him,  whose  secret  love  and  long- 
enduring  faith  are  yet  unknown  and  untried, 
might  well  make  his  bride  distasteful  to  him.  He 
flies  her  on  the  very  day  of  their  marriage,  most 
like  a wilful,  haughty,  angry  boy,  but  not  like  a 
profligate.  On  other  points  he  is  not  so  easily 
defended;  and  Shakspeare,  we  see,  has  not  de- 
fended, but  corrected  him.  The  latter  part  of  the 
play  is  more  perplexing  than  pleasing.  We  do 
not,  indeed,  repine  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  Ber- 
tram, after  all  his  misdemeanors,  is  “dismissed  to 
happiness;”  but,  notwithstanding  the  clever  de- 
fense that  has  been  made  for  him,  he  has  our 
pardon  rather  than  our  sympathy;  and  for  mine 
own  part,  I could  find  it  easier  to  love  Bertram 
as  Helena  does,  than  to  excuse  him — her  love  for 
him  is  his  best  excuse. 


• Percy’s  “Reliques. 


PEEDITA. 


IN  Viola  and  Perdita  the  distinguishing  traits 
are  the  same — sentiment  and  elegance.  Thus 
we  associate  them  together,  though  nothing 
can  be  more  distinct  to  the  fancy  than  the  Doric 
grace  of  Perdita  compared  to  the  romantic  sweet- 
ness of  Viola.  They  are  created  out  of  the  same 
materials,  and  are  equal  to  each  other  in  the  ten- 
derness, delicacy,  and  poetical  beauty  of  the  con- 
ception. They  are  both  more  imaginative  than 
passionate,  but  Perdita  is  the  more  imaginative 
of  the  two.  She  is  the  union  of  the  pastoral  and 
romantic  with  the  classical  and  poetical,  as  if  a 
dryad  of  the  woods  had  turned  shepherdess.  The 
perfections  with  which  the  poet  has  so  lavishly  en- 
dowed her  sit  upon  her  with  a certain  careless  and 
picturesque  grace,  “as  though  they  had  fallen  upon 
her  unawares.”  Thus  Belphcebe,  in  the  “Fairy 
Queen,”  issues  from  the  flowering  forest  with  hair 
and  garments  all  besprinkled  with  the  leaves  and 
blossoms  they  had  entangled  in  her  flight;  and  so, 
arrayed  by  chance  and  “heedless  hap,”  takes  all 
hearts  with  “stately  presence  and  with  princely 
port” — most  like  to  Perdita! 

The  story  of  Florizel  and  Perdita  is  but  an 
episode  in  the  “Winter’s  Tale,”  and  the  character 
of  Perdita  is  properly  kept  subordinate  to  that 
of  her  mother,  Hermione:  yet  the  picture  is  per- 
fectly finished  in  every  part — Juliet  herself  is 
121 


122  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

not  more  firmly  and  distinctly  drawn.  But  the 
coloring  in  Perdita  is  more  silvery  light  and  deli- 
cate, the  pervading  sentiment  more  touched  with 
the  ideal;  compared  with  Juliet,  she  is  like  a Guido 
hung  beside  a Giorgione,  or  one  of  Paesiello's  airs 
heard  after  one  of  Mozart's. 

The  qualities  which  impart  to  Perdita  her  dis- 
tinct individuality  are  the  beautiful  combination 
of  the  pastoral  with  the  elegant,  of  simplicity  with 
elevation,  of  spirit  with  sweetness.  The  exquisite 
delicacy  of  the  picture  is  apparent.  To  under- 
stand and  appreciate  its  effective  truth  and  nature 
we  should  place  Perdita  beside  some  of  the 
nymphs  of  Arcadia  or  the  Cloris'  and  Sylvias  of 
the  Italian  pastorals,  who,  however  graceful  in 
themselves,  when  opposed  to  Perdita,  seem  to 
melt  away  into  mere  poetical  abstractions:  as,  in 
Spenser,  the  fair  but  fictitious  Florimel,  which  the 
subtle  enchantress  had  molded  out  of  snow, 
“vermeil  tinctur’d/'  and  informed  with  an  airy 
spirit,  that  knew  “all  wiles  of  woman's  wits,"  fades 
and  dissolves  away  when  placed  next  to  the  real 
Florimel,  in  her  warm,  breathing,  human  love- 
liness. 

Perdita  does  not  appear  till  the  fourth  act,  and 
the  whole  of  the  character  is  developed  in  the 
course  of  a single  scene  (the  third)  with  a com- 
pleteness of  effect  which  leaves  nothing  to  be  re- 
quired, nothing  to  be  supplied.  She  is  first  intro- 
duced in  the  dialogue  between  herself  and  Florizel, 
where  she  compares  her  own  lowly  state  to  his 
princely  rank,  and  expresses  her  fears  of  the  issue 
of  their  unequal  attachment.  With  all  her  timid- 
ity and  her  sense  of  the  distance  which  separates 


Perdita. 


123 


her  from  her  lover,  she  breathes  not  a single  word 
which  could  lead  us  to  impugn  either  her  delicacy 
or  her  dignity. 

Florizel.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a life — no  shepherdess,  but  Flora 
Peering  in  April’s  front;  this  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  the  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 

And  you  the  queen  on  ’t. 

Perdita.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me; 

O,  pardon,  that  I name  them;  your  high  self 
The  gracious  mark  o’  the  land,  you  have  obscur’d 
With  a swain’s  bearing;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 

Most  goddess-like  prank’d  up;— but  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mass  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a custom,  I should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired;  sworn,  I think, 

To  show  myself  a glass. 

The  impression  of  her  perfect  beauty  and  airy 
elegance  of  demeanor  is  conveyed  in  two  exquisite 
passages — 

What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.  When  you  speak,  sweet, 

I’d  have  you  do  it  ever.  When  you  sing, 

I’d  have  you  buy  and  sell  so,  so  give  alms, 

Pray  so,  and  for  the  ordering  your  affairs 
To  sing  them  too.  When  you  do  dance,  I wish  you 
A wave  o’  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function. 

I take  thy  hand;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it; 

Or  Ethiopian’s  tooth,  or  the  fann’d  snow, 

That’s  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o’er. 

The  artless  manner  in  which  her  innate  nobility 
of  soul  shines  forth  through  her  pastoral  disguise 
is  thus  brought  before  us  at  once — 


124  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 

Ran  on  the  greensward;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 

But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 

Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Her  natural  loftiness  of  spirit  breaks  out  where 
she  is  menaced  and  reviled  by  the  king  as  one 
whom  his  son  has  degraded  himself  by  merely 
looking  on.  She  bears  the  royal  frown  without 
quailing,  but  the  moment  he  is  gone,  the  im- 
mediate recollection  of  herself,  of  her  humble 
state,  of  her  hapless  love,  is  full  of  beauty,  tender- 
ness, and  nature — 

Even  here  undone! 

I was  not  much  afeared:  for  once  or  twice, 

I was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly 
The  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike. 

Will  ’t  please  you,  sir,  be  gone? 

I told  you  what  would  come  of  this.  Beseech  you, 

Of  your  own  state  take  care;  this  dream  of  mine, 

Being  now  awake,  I’ll  queen  it  no  inch  further, 

But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

How  often  have  I told  you  ’t  would  be  thus? 

How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  ’twere  known? 

Florizel.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

The  violation  of  my  faith;  and  then 
Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o’  the  earth  together 
And  mar  the  seeds  within!  Lift  up  thy  looks. 
****** 

Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean’d;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I break  my  oath 
To  thee,  my  fair  beloved! 


Perdita  has  another  characteristic,  which  lends 
to  the  poetical  delicacy  of  the  delineation  a certain 


Perdita. 


125 


strength  and  moral  elevation  which  is  peculiarly 
striking.  It  is  that  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude, 
that  upright  simplicity  of  mind,  which  disdains 
all  crooked  and  indirect  means,  which  would  not 
stoop  for  an  instant  to  dissemblance,  and  is 
mingled  with  a noble  confidence  in  her  love  and 
in  her  lover.  In  this  spirit  is  her  answer  to 
Camillo,  who  says,  courtier-like — 

Besides,  you  know 
Prosperity’s  the  very  bond  of  love; 

Whose  fresh  complexion,  and  whose  heart  together 
Affliction  alters. 


To  which  she  replies — 

One  of  these  is  true; 
I think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  take  in  the  mind. 


In  that  elegant  scene  where  she  receives  the 
guests  at  sheep-shearing,  and  distributes  the 
flowers,  there  is  in  the  full  flow  of  the  poetry  a 
most  beautiful  and  striking  touch  of  individual 
character:  but  here  it  is  impossible  to  mutilate  the 
dialogue — 

Reverend  sirs, 

For  you  there’s  rosemary  and  rue;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savor  all  the  winter  long; 

Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 

And  welcome  to  our  shearing! 

Polixencs.  Shepherdess 

(A  fair  one  you  are),  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter! 

Perdita.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 

Not  yet  on  summer’s  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o’  the  season 
Are  our  carnations  and  streak’d  gilliflowers, 


126 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Which  some  call  nature’s  bastards;  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden’s  barren;  and  I care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Polixenes.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them? 

Perdita.  For  I have  heard  it  said 

There  is  an  art,  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Polixenes.  Say  there  be; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 

But  nature  makes  that  mean;  so  o’er  that  art, 

Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 

That  nature  makes.  You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A gentle  scion  to  the  wildest  stock; 

And  make  conceive  a bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  noble  race.  This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature — change  it  rather;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Perdita.  So  it  is. 

Polixenes.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors  * 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Perdita.  I’ll  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them; 

No  more  than,  were  I painted,  I would  wish 
This  youth  should  say  ’twere  well. 


It  has  been  well  remarked  of  this  passage,  that 
Perdita  does  not  attempt  to  answer  the  reasoning 
of  Polixenes:  she  gives  up  the  argument,  but, 
woman-like',  retains  her  own  opinion,  or,  rather, 
her  sense  of  right,  unshaken  by  his  sophistry.  She 
goes  on  in  a strain  of  poetry,  which  comes  over 
the  soul  like  music  and  fragrance  mingled;  we 
seem  to  inhale  the  blended  odors  of  a thousand 
flowers,  till  the  sense  faints  with  their  sweetness; 
and  she  concludes  with  a touch  of  passionate 
sentiment,  which  melts  into  the  very  heart — 


* Gilliflowers. 


Perdita. 


127 


O Proserpina! 

For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let’st  fall 
From  Dis’s  wagon!  Daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 

But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno’s  eyes, 

Or  Cytherea’s  breath;  pale  primroses, 

That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a malady 
Most  incident  to  maids;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown-imperial:  lilies  of  all  kinds, 

The  flower-de-luce  being  one!  O!  these  I lack 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend, 

To  strew  him  o’er  and  o’er. 

Florizel.  What,  like  a corse? 

Perdita.  No,  like  a bank,  for  Love  to  lie  and  play  on; 
Not  like  a corse;  or  if,— not  to  be  buried, 

But  quick,  and  in  my  arms! 

This  love  of  truth,  this  conscientiousness , which 
forms  so  distinct  a feature  in  the  character  of 
Perdita,  and  mingles  with  its  picturesque  delicacy 
a certain  firmness  and  dignity  is  maintained  con- 
sistently to  the  last.  When  the  two  lovers  fly 
together  from  Bohemia,  and  take  refuge  in  the 
courts  of  Leontes,  the  real  father  of  Perdita, 
Florizel  presents  himself  before  the  king  with  a 
feigned  tale,  in  which  he  has  been  artfully  in- 
structed by  the  old  counsellor  Camillo.  During 
this  scene  Perdita  does  not  utter  a word.  In  the 
strait  in  which  they  are  placed,  she  cannot  deny 
the  story  which  Florizel  relates — she  will  not  con- 
firm it.  Her  silence,  in  spite  of  all  the  compli- 
ments and  greetings  of  Leontes,  has  a peculiar  and 
characteristic  grace;  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
scene,  when  they  are  betrayed,  the  truth  bursts 
from  her  as  if  instinctively,  and  she  exclaims, 
with  emotion — 


128  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

The  heaven  sets  spies  upon  us— will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

After  this  scene  Perdita  says  very  little.  The 
description  of  her  grief,  while  listening  to  the  re- 
lation of  her  mothers  death — 

One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all  was,  when,  at  the  rela- 
tion of  the  queen’s  death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came 
to  ’t,  how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter;  till,  from 
one  sign  of  dolor  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  alas!  I would 
fain  say,  bleed  tears— 

her  deportment  too  as  she  stands  gazing  on  the 
statue  of  Hennione,  fixed  in  wonder,  admiration, 
and  sorrow,  as  if  she  too  were  marble — 

O royal  piece! 

There’s  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee!— 

are  touches  of  character  conveyed  indirectly,  and 
which  serve  to  give  a more  finished  effect  to  this 
beautiful  picture. 


MIRANDA. 


VIOLA. 


AS  the  innate  dignity  of  Perdita  pierces 
through  her  rustic  disguise,  so  the  exquisite 
refinement  of  Viola  triumphs  over  her  mas- 
culine attire.  Viola  is,  perhaps,  in  a degree  less 
elevated  and  ideal  than  Perdita,  but  with  a touch 
of  sentiment  more  profound  and  heart-stirring; 
she  is  “deep-learn’d  in  the  lore  of  love,” — at  least, 
theoretically — and  speaks  as  masterly  on  the  sub- 
ject as  Perdita  does  of  flowers — 

Duke.  How  dost  thou  like  this  tune? 

Viola.  It  gives  a very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron’d. 

And  again — 

If  I did  love  you  in  my  master’s  flame, 

With  such  a suffering,  such  a deadly  life — 

In  your  denial  I would  find  no  sense, 

I would  not  understand  it. 

Olivia.  Why,  what  would  you? 

Viola.  Make  we  a willow  cabin  at  your  gate© 

And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house; 

Write  loyal  cantons*  of  contemned  love, 

And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night. 

Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 

And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia!  O!  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 

But  you  should  pity  me. 

Olivia.  You  might  do  much. 


I.  e.,  cantons , songs. 


129 


130  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

The  situation  and  the  character  of  Viola  have 
been  censured  for  their  want  of  consistency  and 
probability:  it  is  therefore  worth  while  to  examine 
how  far  this  criticism  is  true.  As  for  her  situa- 
tion in  the  drama  (of  which  she  is  properly  the 
heroine),  it  is  shortly  this.  She  is  shipwrecked 
on  the  coast  of  Illyria;  she  is  alone  and  without 
protection  in  a strange  country.  She  wishes  to 
enter  into  the  service  of  the  Countess  Olivia;  but 
she  is  assured  that  this  is  impossible;  “for  the 
lady,  having  recently  lost  an  only  and  beloved 
brother,  has  adjured  the  sight  of  men,  has  shut 
herself  up  in  her  palace,  and  will  admit  no  kind  of 
suit.”  In  this  perplexity,  Viola  remembers  to  have 
heard  her  father  speak  with  praise  and  admiration 
of  Orsino,  the  duke  of  the  country;  and  having 
ascertained  that  he  is  not  married,  and  that,  there- 
fore, his  court  is  not  a proper  asylum  for  her  in 
her  feminine  character,  she  attires  herself  in  the 
disguise  of  a page,  as  the  best  protection  against 
uncivil  comments,  till  she  can  gain  some  tidings 
of  her  brother. 

If  we  carry  our  thoughts  back  to  a romantic  and 
chivalrous  age,  there  is  surely  sufficient  probability 
here  for  all  the  purposes  of  poetry.  To  pursue 
the  thread  of  Viola’s  destiny: — she  is  engaged  in 
the  service  of  the  Duke,  whom  she  finds  “fancy- 
sick”  for  the  love  of  Olivia.  We  are  left  to  infer 
(for  so  it  is  hinted  in  the  first  scene),  that  this 
Duke — who,  with  his  accomplishments  and  his 
personal  attractions,  his  taste  for  music,  his 
chivalrous  tenderness,  and  his  unrequited  love,  is 
really  a very  fascinating  and  poetical  personage, 
though  a iittle  passionate  and  fantastic — had 


Viola. 


131 


already  made  some  impression  on  Viola’s  imagina- 
tion; and  when  she  comes  to  play  the  confidant, 
and  to  be  loaded  with  favors  and  kindness  in  her 
assumed  character,  that  she  should  be  touched  by 
a passion  made  up  of  pity,  admiration,  gratitude, 
and  tenderness,  does  not,  I think,  in  any  way 
detract  from  the  genuine  sweetness  and  delicacy  of 
her  character,  for  “ she  never  told  her  loved' 

Now  all  this,  as  the  critic  wisely  observes,  may 
not  present  a very  just  picture  of  life;  and  it  may 
also  fail  to  impart  any  moral  lesson  for  the  especial 
profit  of  well-bred  young  ladies;  but  is  it  not  in 
truth  and  in  nature?  Did  it  ever  fail  to  charm 
or  to  interest,  to  seize  on  the  coldest  fancy,  to 
touch  the  most  insensible  heart? 

Viola  then  is  the  chosen  favorite  of  the  enam- 
ored Duke,  and  becomes  his  messenger  to  Olivia, 
and  the  interpreter  of  his  sufferings  to  that  in- 
accessible beauty.  In  her  character  of  a youthful 
page  she  attracts  the  favor  of  Olivia,  and  excites 
the  jealousy  of  her  lord.  The  situation  is  critical 
and  delicate;  but  how  exquisitely  is  the  character 
of  Viola  fitted  to  her  part,  carrying  her  through 
the  ordeal  with  all  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace 
of  modesty!  What  beautiful  propriety  in  the  dis- 
tinction drawn  between  Rosalind  and  Viola!  The 
wild  sweetness,  the  frolic  humor,  which  sports  free 
and  unblamed  amid  the  shades  of  Ardennes,  would 
ill  become  Viola,  whose  playfulness  is  assumed  as 
part  of  her  disguise  as  a court  page,  and  is  guarded 
by  the  strictest  delicacy.  She  has  not,  like  Rosa- 
lind, a saucy  enjoyment  in  her  own  incognito;  her 
disguise  does  not  sit  so  easily  upon  her;  her  heart 
does  not  beat  freely  under  it.  As  in  the  old  ballad, 


132  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

where  "Sweet  William”  is  detected  weeping  in 
secret  over  her  "man's  array,”*  so  in  Viola  a sweet 
consciousness  of  her  feminine  nature  is  for  ever 
breaking  through  her  masquerade — 

And  on  her  cheek  is  ready  with  a blush, 

Modest  as  morning,  when  she  coldly  eyes 
The  youthful  Phoebus. 

She  plays  her  part  well,  but  never  forgets,  nor 
allows  us  to  forget,  that  she  is  playing  a part — 

Olivia.  Are  you  a comedian? 

Viola.  No,  my  profound  heart!  and  yet,  by  the  very  fangs 
of  malice  I swear,  I am  not  that  I play! 


And  thus  she  comments  on  it — 

Disguise,  I see  thou  art  a wickedness, 

Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 
In  women’s  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms! 

Alas!  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we. 

The  feminine  cowardice  of  Viola,  which  will  not 
allow  her  even  to  affect  a courage  becoming  her 
attire,  her  horror  at  the  idea  of  drawing  a sword, 
is  very  natural  and  characteristic,  and  produces 
a most  humorous  effect,  even  at  the  very  moment 
it  charms  and  interests  us. 

Contrasted  with  the  deep,  silent,  patient  love 
of  Viola  for  the  Duke,  we  have  the  ladylike  wil- 
fulness of  Olivia  ; and  her  sudden  passion,  or  rather 
fancy,  for  the  disguised  page,  takes  so  beautiful  a 
coloring  of  poetry  and  sentiment,  that  we  do  not 
think  her  forward.  Olivia  is  like  a princess  of 

♦Percy’s  “Reliques,”  Vol.  III.  See  the  ballad  of  “The 
Lady-turning  Serving  Man.” 


Viola. 


133 


romance,  and  has  all  the  privileges  of  one;  she 
is,  like  Portia,  high-born  and  high-bred,  mistress 
over  her  servants — but  not,  like  Portia,  “queen 
o’er  herself.”  She  has  never  in  her  life  been 
opposed:  the  first  contradiction,  therefore,  rouses 
all  the  woman  in  her,  and  turns  a caprice  into  a 
head-long  passion:  yet  she  apologizes  for  herself — 

I have  said  too  much  unto  a heart  of  stone, 

And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary  out; 

There’s  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault; 

But  such  a headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 

That  it  but  mocks  reproof! 

And,  in  the  midst  of  her  self-abandonment,  never 
allows  us  to  contemn  even  while  we  pity  her — 

What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I’ll  deny, 

That,  honor  saved,  may  upon  asking  give? 

The  distance  of  rank  which  separates  the  count- 
ess from  the  youthful  page — the  real  sex  of  Viola 
— the  dignified  elegance  of  Olivia’s  deportment, 
except  where  passion  gets  the  better  of  her  pride 
— her  consistent  coldness  towards  the  Duke — the 
description  of  that  “smooth,  discreet,  and  stable 
bearing”  with  which  she  rules  her  household — her 
generous  care  for  her  steward,  Malvolio,  in  the 
midst  of  her  own  distress — all  these  circumstances 
raise  Olivia  in  our  fancy,  and  render  her  caprice 
for  the  page  a source  of  amusement  and  interest, 
not  a subject  of  reproach.  “Twelfth  Night”  is  a 
genuine  comedy — a perpetual  spring  of  the  gayest 
and  the  sweetest  fancies.  In  artificial  society, 
men  and  women  are  divided  into  castes  and  classes, 
and  it  is  rarely  that  extremes  in  character  or  man- 
ners can  approximate.  To  blend  into  one  har- 


134  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

monious  picture  the  utmost  grace  and  refinement 
of  sentiment,  and  the  broadest  effects  of  humor, 
the  most  poignant  wit  and  the  most  indulgent 
benignity;  in  short,  to  bring  before  us,  in  the  same 
scene,  Viola  and  Olivia,  with  Malvolio  and  Sir 
Toby,  belonged  only  to  Nature  and  to  Shakspeare. 

A woman’s  affections,  however  strong,  are  senti- 
ments when  they  run  smooth;  and  become  pas- 
sions only  when  opposed. 

In  Juliet  and  Helena  love  is  depicted  as  a pas- 
sion, properly  so-called;  that  is,  a natural  impulse 
throbbing  in  the  heart’s  blood,  and  mingling  with 
the  very  sources  of  life;  a sentiment  more  or  less 
modified  by  the  imagination;  a strong  abiding 
principle  and  motive,  excited  by  resistance,  acting 
upon  the  will,  animating  all  the  other  faculties, 
and  again  influenced  by  them.  This  is  the  most 
complex  aspect  of  love,  and  in  these  two  charac- 
ters it  is  depicted  in  colors  at  once  the  most  vari- 
ous, the  most  intense,  and  the  most  brilliant. 

In  Viola  and  Perdita  love,  being  less  complex, 
appears  more  refined;  more  a sentiment  than  a 
passion — a compound  of  impulse  and  fancy,  while 
the  reflective  powers  and  moral  energies  are  more 
faintly  developed.  The  same  remark  applies  also 
to  Julia  and  Sylvia  in  “The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,”  and,  in  a greater  degree,  to  Hermia  and 
Helena  in  the  “Midsummer  Night’s  Dream.”  In 
the  two  latter,  though  perfectly  discriminated, 
love  takes  the  visionary  fanciful  cast  which  be- 
longs to  the  whole  piece;  it  is  scarcely  a passion 
or  a sentiment,  but  a dreamy  enchantment,  a 
reverie,  which  a fairy  spell  dissolves  or  fixes  at 
pleasure. 


OPHELIA. 


BUT  there  was  yet  another  possible  modifica- 
tion of  the  sentiment,  as  combined  with 
female  nature;  and  this  Shakspeare  has 
shown  to  us.  He  has  portrayed  two  beings,  in 
whom,  all  intellectual  and  moral  energy  is  in  a 
manner  latent,  if  existing;  in  whom  love  is  an  un- 
conscious impulse,  and  imagination  lends  the  ex- 
ternal charm  and  hue,  not  the  internal  power; 
in  whom  the  feminine  character  appears  resolved 
into  its  very  elementary  principles— as  modesty, 
grace,*  tenderness.  Without  these  a woman  is  no 
woman,  but  a thing  which,  luckily  wants  a name 
yet;  with  these,  though  every  other  faculty  were 
passive  or  deficient,  she  might  still  be  herself. 
These  are  the  inherent  qualities  with  which  God 
sent  us  into  the  world:  they  may  be  perverted  by 
a bad  education — they  may  be  obscured  by  harsh 
and  evil  destinies — they  may  be  overpowered  by 
the  development  of  some  particular  mental  power, 
the  predominance  of  some  passion;  but  they  are 
never  wholly  crushed  out  of  the  woman’s  soul, 
while  it  retains  those  faculties  which  render  it 
responsible  to  its  Creator.  Shakspeare  then  has 

* By  this  word,  as  used  here.  I would  be  understood  to 
mean  that  inexpressible  something  within  the  soul  which 
tends  to  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  true,  and  is  the  anti- 
podes to  the  vulgar,  the  violent,  and  the  false;  that  which 
we  see  diffused  externally  over  the  form  and  movements 
where  there  is  perfect  innocence  and  unconsciousness,  as  in 
children. 


135 


136  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

shown  us  that  these  elemental  feminine  qualities, 
modesty,  grace,  tenderness,  when  expanded  under 
genial  influences,  suffice  to  constitute  a perfect 
and  happy  human  creature; — such  is  Miranda. 
When  thrown  alone  amid  harsh  and  adverse  des- 
tinies, and  amid  the  trammels  and  corruptions 
of  society,  without  energy  to  resist,  or  will  to  act, 
or  strength  to  endure,  the  end  must  needs  be 
desolation. 

Ophelia — poor  Ophelia!  Oh,  far  too  soft,  too 
good,  too  fair,  to  be  cast  among  the  briars  of  this 
working-day  world,  and  fall  and  bleed  upon  the 
thorns  of  life!  What  shall  be  said  of  her?  for  elo- 
quence is  mute  before  her!  Like  a strain  of  sad, 
sweet  music,  which  comes  floating  by  us  on  the 
wings  of  night  and  silence,  and  which  we  rather 
feel  than  hear — like  the  exhalation  of  the  violet, 
dying  even  upon  the  sense  it  charms — like  the 
snow-flake  dissolved  in  air  before  it  has  caught  a 
stain  of  earth — like  the  light  surf  served  from 
the  billow,  which  a breath  disperses; — such  is  the 
character  of  Ophelia:  so  exquisitely  delicate,  it 
seems  as  if  a touch  would  profane  it;  so  sanctified 
in  our  thoughts  by  the  last  and  worst  of  human 
woes,  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it  too 
deeply.  The  love  of  Ophelia,  which  she  never 
once  confesses,  is  like  a secret  which  we  have 
stolen  from  her,  and  which  ought  to  die  upon  our 
hearts  as  upon  her  own.  Her  sorrow  asks  not 
words,  but  tears;  and  her  madness  has  precisely 
the  same  effect  that  would  be  produced  by  the 
spectacle  of  real  insanity,  if  brought  before  us: 
we  feel  inclined  to  turn  away,  and  veil  our  eyes 
in  reverential  pity  and  too  painful  sympathy. 


Ophelia.  137 

Beyond  every  character  that  Shakspeare  has 
drawn  (Hamlet  alone  excepted),  that  of  Ophelia 
makes  us  forget  the  poet  in  his  own  creation. 
Whenever  we  bring  her  to  mind,  it  is  with  the 
same  exclusive  sense  of  her  real  existence,  with- 
out reference  to  the  wondrous  power  which  called 
her  into-  life.  The  effect  (and  what  an  effect!)  is 
produced  by  means  so  simple,  by  strokes  so  few 
and  so  unobtrusive,  that  we  take  no  thought  of 
them.  It  is  so  purely  natural  and  unsophisticated, 
yet  so  profound  in  its  pathos,  that,  as  Hazlitt 
observes,  it  takes  us  back  to  the  old  ballads;  we 
forget  that,  in  its  perfect  artlessness,  it  is  the 
supreme  and  consummate  triumph  of  art. 

The  situation  of  Ophelia  in  the  story*  is  that 
of  a young  girl  who,  at  an  early  age,  is  brought 
from  a life  of  privacy  into  the  circle  of  a court — a 
court  such  as  we  read  of  in  those  early  times,  at 
once  rude,  magnificent,  and  corrupted.  She  is 
placed  immediately  about  the  person  of  the  queen, 
and  is  apparently  her  favorite  attendant.  The 
affection  of  the  wicked  queen  for  this  gentle  and 
innocent  creature  is  one  of  those  beautiful  and  re- 
deeming touches,  one  of  those  penetrating  glances 
into  the  secret  springs  of  natural  and  feminine 
feeling,  which  we  find  only  in  Shakspeare.  Ger- 
trude, who  is  not  so  wholly  abandoned  but  that 
there  remains  within  her  heart  some  sense  of  the 
virtue  she  has  forfeited,  seems  to  look  with  a kind 
yet  melancholy  complacency  on  the  lovely  being 

* I.  e.f  in  the  story  of  the  drama;  for  in  the  original 
‘‘History  of  Amleth  the  Dane,”  from  which  Shakspeare 
drew  his  materials,  there  is  a woman  introduced  who  is  em- 
ployed as  an  instrument  to  seduce  Amleth,  but  not  even  the 
germ  of  the  character  of  Ophelia. 


138  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

she  has  destined  for  the  bride  of  her  son;  and 
the  scene  in  which  she  is  introduced  as  scattering 
flowers  on  the  grave  of  Ophelia  is  one  of  those 
effects  of  contrast  in  poetry,  in  character,  and  in 
feeling,  at  once  natural  and  unexpected,  which 
fill  the  eye,  and  make  the  heart  swell  and  tremble 
within  itself,  like  the  nightingales  singing  in  the 
Grove  of  the  Furies  in  Sophocles.* 

Again,  in  the  father  of  Ophelia,  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  Polonius — the  shrewd,  wary,  subtle, 
pompous,  garrulous  old  courtier — have  we  not  the 
very  man  who  would  send  his  son  into  the  world 
to  see  all,  learn  all  it  could  teach  of  good  and 
evil,  but  keep  his  only  daughter  as  far  as  possible 
from  every  taint  of  that  world  he  knew  so  well? 
So  that  when  she  is  brought  to  the  court,  she 
seems,  in  her  loveliness  and  perfect  purity,  like  a 
seraph  that  had  wandered  out  of  bounds,  and  yet 
breathed  on  earth  the  air  of  Paradise.  When  her 
father  and  her  brother  find  it  necessary  to  warn 
her  simplicity,  give  her  lessons  of  worldly  wisdom, 
and  instruct  her  “to  be  scanter  of  her  maiden 
presence,”  for  that  Hamlet’s  vows  of  love  “but 
breathe  like  sanctified  and  pious  bonds,  the  bet- 
ter to  beguile,”  we  feel  at  once  that  it  comes  too 
late;  for  from  the  moment  she  appears  on  the 
scene,  amid  the  dark  conflict  of  crime  and  ven- 
geance, and  supernatural  terrors,  we  know  what 
must  be  her  destiny.  Once,  at  Murano,  I saw  a 
dove  caught  in  a tempest — perhaps  it  was  young, 
and  either  lacked  strength  of  wing  to  reach  its 
home,  or  the  instinct  which  teaches  to  shun  the 
brooding  storm,  but  so  it  was — and  I watched  it, 

* In  the  “CEdipus  Coloneus.” 


Ophelia.  139 

pitying,  as  it  flitted,  poor  bird!  hither  and  hither, 
with  its  silver  pinions  shining  against  the  black 
thunder-cloud,  till,  after  a few  giddy  whirls,  it 
fell,  blinded,  affrighted,  and  bewildered,  into  the 
turbid  wave  beneath,  and  was  swallowed  up  for- 
ever. It  reminded  me  then  of  the  fate  of  Ophelia; 
and  now,  when  I think  of  her,  I see  again  before 
me  that  poor  dove,  beating  with  weary  wing,  be- 
wildered amid  the  storm.  It  is  the  helplessness  of 
Ophelia,  arising  merely  from  her  innocence1,  and 
pictured  without  any  indication  of  weakness, 
which  melts  us  with  such  profound  pity.  She  is 
so  young,  that  neither  her  mind  nor  her  person 
have  attained  maturity:  she  is  not  aware  of  the 
nature  of  her  own  feelings;  they  are  prematurely 
developed  in  their  full  force'  before  she  has 
strength  to  bear  them;  and  love  and  grief  together 
rend  and  shatter  the  frail  texture  of  her  existence, 
like  the  burning  fluid  poured  into  a crystal  vase. 
She  says  very  little,  and  what  she  does  say  seems 
rather  intended  to  hide  than  to  reveal  the 
emotions  of  her  heart;  yet  in  those  few  words  we 
are  made  as  perfectly  acquainted  with  her  charac- 
ter, and  with  what  is  passing  in  her  mind,  as  if 
she  had  thrown  forth  her  soul  with  all  the  glow- 
ing eloquence  of  Juliet.  Passion  with  Juliet  seems 
innate,  a part  of  her  being,  “as  dwells  the  gather’d 
lightning  in  the  cloud;”  and  we  never  fancy  her 
but  with  the  dark  splendid  eyes  and  Titian-like 
complexion  of  the  south;  while  in  Ophelia  we  rec- 
ognize as  distinctly  the  pensive,  fair-haired,  blue- 
eyed daughter  of  the  north,  whose  heart  seems  to 
vibrate  to  the  passion  she  has  inspired,  more  con- 
scious of  being  loved  than  of  loving;  and  yet,  alasl 


140 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

loving  in  the  silent  depths  of  her  young  heart  far 
more  than  she  is  loved. 

When  her  brother  warns  her  against  Hamlet’s 
importunities — 

For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favor, 

Hold  it  a fashion,  and  a toy  in  blood, 

A violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 

Forward  not  permanent,  sweet  not  lasting, 

The  perfume  and  the  suppliance  of  a minute— 

No  more! — 

she  replies  with  a kind  of  half-consciousness — 

No  more  but  so? 

Laertes.  Think  it  no  more. 

He  concludes  his  admonition  with  that  most 
beautiful  passage,  in  which  the  soundest  sense,  the 
most  excellent  advice,  is  conveyed  in  a strain  of 
the  most  exquisite  poetry — 

The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 

If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon; 

Virtue  itself  ’scapes  not  calumnious  strokes. 

The  cancer  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclosed: 

And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 

She  answers  with  the  same  modesty,  yet  with 
a kind  of  involuntary  avowal  that  his  fears  are 
not  altogether  without  cause — 

I shall  th’  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep 
As  watchman  to  my  heart.  But,  good  my  brother, 

Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 

Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven; 

Whilst,  like  a puff’d  and  reckless  libertine, 

Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 

And  recks  not  his  own  rede.”  * 

* “And  recks  not  his  own  rede,”  i.  e heeds  not  his  own 
lesson. 


Ophelia.  141 

When  her  father,  immediately  afterwards,  cate- 
chises her  on  the  same  subject,  he  extorts  from 
her,  in  short  sentences  uttered  with  bashful  re- 
luctance, the  confession  of  Hamlet’s  love  for  her, 
but  not  a word  of  her  love  for  him.  The  whole 
scene  is  managed  with  inexpressible  delicacy:  it 
is  one  of  those  instances,  common  in  Shakspeare, 
in  which  we  are  allowed  to  perceive  what  is  pass- 
ing in  the  mind  of  a person  without  any  con- 
sciousness on  their  part.  Only  Ophelia  herself  is 
unaware  that  while  she  is  admitting  the  extent 
of  Hamlet’s  courtship,  she  is  also  betraying  how 
deep  is  the  impression  it  has  made,  how  entire  the 
love  with  which  it  is  returned — 

Polonius.  What  is  between  you?  Give  me  up  the  truth! 
Ophelia.  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late  made  many  tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me. 

Polonius.  Affection!  puh!  you  speak  like  a green  girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstance. 

Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them? 

Ophelia.  I do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I should  think. 
Polonius.  Marry,  I’ll  teach  you;  think  yourself  a baby, 
That  you  have  ta’en  these  tenders  for  true  pay 
Which  are  not  sterling.  Tender  yourself  more  dearly. 

Or  (not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase, 

Wronging  it  thus)  you’ll  tender  me  a fool. 

Ophelia.  My  lord,  he  hath  importun’d  me  with  love 
In  honorable  fashion. 

Polonius.  Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it.  Go  to,  go  to. 
Ophelia.  And  hath  given  countenance  to  his  speech,  my 
lord, 

With  all  the  vows  of  heaven. 

Polonius.  Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks. 

....  This  is  for  all: 

I would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment’s  leisure 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  Lord  Hamlet. 

Look  to  ’t,  I charge  you:  come  your  ways. 

Ophelia.  I shall  obey,  my  lord. 


142  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Besides  its  intrinsic  loveliness,  the  character 
of  Ophelia  has  a relative  beauty  and  delicacy 
when  considered  in  relation  to  that  of  Hamlet, 
which  is  the  delineation  of  a man  of  genius  in 
contest  with  the  powers  of  this  world.  The  weak- 
ness of  volition,  the  instability  of  purpose,  the 
contemplative  sensibility,  the  subtlety  of  thought, 
always  shrinking  from  action,  and  always  occu- 
pied in  “thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event/’ 
united  to  immense  intellectual  power,  render  him 
unspeakably  interesting;  and  yet  I doubt  whether 
any  woman,  who  would  have  been  capable  of 
understanding  and  appreciating  such  a man,  would 
have  passionately  loved  him.  Let  us  for  a moment 
imagine  any  one  of  Shakspeare’s  most  beautiful 
and  striking  female  characters  in  immediate  con- 
nection with  Hamlet.  The  gentle  Desdemona 
would  never  have  despatched  her  household  cares 
in  haste,  to  listen  to  his  philosophical  speculations, 
his  dark  conflicts  with  his  own  spirit.  Such  a 
woman  as  Portia  would  have  studied  him;  Juliet 
would  have  pitied  him;  Eosalind  would  have 
turned  him  over  with  a smile  to  the  melancholy 
Jaques;  Beatrice  would  have  laughed  at  him  out- 
right; Isabel  would  have  reasoned  with  him; 
Miranda  could  but  have  wondered  at  him;  but 
Ophelia  loves  him.  Ophelia,  the  young,  fair,  in- 
experienced girl,  facile  to  every  impression,  fond 
in  her  simplicity,  and  credulous  in  her  innocence, 
loves  Hamlet;  not  from  what  he  is  in  himself,  but 
for  that  which  appears  to  her — the  gentle,  accom- 
plished prince,  upon  whom  she  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  all  eyes  fixed  in  hope  and  admiration, 
“the  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state/’  the 


Ophelia.  143 

star  of  the  court  in  which  she  moves,  the  first  who 
has  ever  whispered  soft  vows  in  her  ear:  and  what 
can  be  more  natural? 

But  is  it  not  singular,  that  while  no  one  enter- 
tains a doubt  of  Ophelia’s  love  for  Hamlet — 
though  never  once  expressed  by  herself,  or 
asserted  by  others,  in  the  whole  course  of  the 
drama — yet  it  is  a subject  of  dispute  whether 
Hamlet  loves  Ophelia.  Though  she  herself  allows 
that  he  had  importuned  her  with  love,  and  “had 
given  countenance  to  his  suit  with  almost  all  the 
holy  vows  of  heaven;”  although  in  the  letter  which 
Polonius  intercepted,  Hamlet  declares  that  he 
loves  her  “best,  0,  most  best!”  though  he  asserts 
himself,  with  wildest  vehemence — 

I loved  Ophelia;  forty  tkousaud  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 

Make  up  my  sum: 

still  I have  heard  the  question  canvassed;  I have 
even  heard  it  denied  that  Hamlet  did  love  Ophelia. 
The  author  of  the  finest  remarks  I have  yet  seen 
on  the  play  and  character  of  Hamlet,  leans  to 
this  opinion.  As  the  observations  I allude  to  are 
contained  in  a periodical  publication,  and  may  not 
be  at  hand  for  immediate  reference,  I shall  in- 
dulge myself  (and  the  reader  no  less)  by  quoting 
the  opening  paragraphs  of  this  noble  piece  of 
criticism,  upon  the  principle  and  for  the  reason 
I have  already  stated  in  the  Introduction: 

“We  take  up  a play,  and  ideas  come  rolling  in 
upon  us,  like  waves  impelled  by  a strong  wind. 
There  is  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  Shakspeare’s  soul 
all  the  gradeur  of  a mighty  operation  of  nature; 


144  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  when  we  think  or  speak  of  him,  it  should  he 
with  humility  where  we  do  not  understand,  and 
a conviction  that  it  is  rather  to  the  narrowness  of 
our  own  mind  than  to  any  failing  in  the  art  of  the 
great  magician  that  we  ought  to  attribute  any 
sense  of  weakness  which  may  assail  us  during  the 
contemplation  of  his  created  worlds. 

“Shakspeare  himself,  had  he  even  been  as-  great 
a critic  as  a poet,  could  not  have  written  a regular 
dissertation  upon  Hamlet.  So  ideal,  and  yet  so 
real  an  existence,  could  have  been  shadowed  out 
only  in  the  colors  of  poetry.  When  a character 
deals  solely  or  chiefly  with  this  world  and  its 
events,  when  it  acts  and  is  acted  upon  by  objects 
that  have  a palpable  existence,  we  see  it  distinctly, 
as  if  it  were  cast  in  a material  mold,  as  if  it  par- 
took of  the  fixed  and  settled  lineaments,  of  the 
things  on  which  it  lavishes  its  sensibilities  and  its 
passions.  We^see  in  such  cases  the  vision  of  an 
individual  soul,  as  we  see  the  vision  of  an 
individual  countenance.  We  can  describe  both, 
and  can  let  a stranger  into  our  knowledge.  But 
how  tell  in  words  so  pure,  so  fine,  so  ideal  an 
abstraction  as  Hamlet?  We  can,  indeed,  figure 
to  ourselves,  generally,  his  princely  form,  that 
outshone  all  others  in  manly  beauty,  and  adorn  it 
with  the  consummation  of  all  liberal  accomplish- 
ment. We  can  behold  in  every  look,  every  ges- 
ture, every  motion,  the  future  king — 

The  courtier’s,  soldier’s,  scholar’s  eye,  tongue,  sword, 

Th’  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state; 

The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mold  of  form, 

Th’  observed  of  all  observers. 


Ophelia.  145 

“But  when  we  would  penetrate  into  his  spirit, 
meditate  on  those  things  on  which  he  meditates, 
accompany  him  even  unto  the  brink  of  eternity, 
fluctuate  with  him  on  the  ghastly  sea  of  despair, 
soar  with  him  into  the  purest  and  serenest  regions 
of  human  thought,  feel  with  him  the  curse  of 
beholding  iniquity,  and  the  troubled  delight  of 
thinking  on  innocence,  and  gentleness,  and 
beauty;  come  with  him  from  all  the  glorious 
dreams  cherished  by  a noble  spirit  in  the  halls 
of  wisdom  and  philosophy,  of  a sudden  into  the 
gloomy  courts  of  sin,  and  incest,  and  murder; 
shudder  with  him  over  the  broken  and  shattered 
fragments  of  all  the  fairest  creations  of  his  fancy; 
be  borne  with  him  at  once  from  calm,  and  lofty, 
and  delighted  speculations,  into  the  very  heart  of 
fear,  and  horror,  and  tribulations;  have  the 
agonies  and  the  guilt  of  our  mortal  world  brought 
into  immediate  contact  with  the  world  beyond 
the  grave,  and  the  influence  of  an  awful  shadow 
hanging  for  ever  on  our  thoughts;  be  present  at  a 
fearful  combat  between  all  the  stirred-up  passions 
of  humanity  in  the  soul  of  man,  a combat  in  which 
one  and  all  of  these  passions  are  alternately  vic- 
torious and  overcome — I say,  that  when  we  are 
thus  placed,  and  acted  upon,  how  is  it  possible  to 
draw  a character  of  this  sublime  drama,  or  of  the 
mysterious  being  who  is  its  moving  spirit?  In 
him,  his  character  and  situation,  there  is  a concen- 
tration of  all  the  interests  that  belong  to  human- 
ity. There  is  scarcely  a trait  of  frailty  or  of 
grandeur,  which  may  have  endeared  to  us  our 
most  beloved  friends  in  real  life,  that  is  not  to 
be  found  in  Hamlet.  Undoubtedly  Shakspeare 


146  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

loved  him  beyond  all  his  other  creations.  Soon 
as  he  appears  on  the  stage  we  are  satisfied:  when 
absent  we  long  for  his  return.  This  is  the  only 
play  which  exists  almost  altogether  in  the  charac- 
ter of  one  single  person.  Who  ever  knew  a 
Hamlet  in  real  life?  yet  who,  ideal  as  the  charac- 
ter is,  feels  not  its  reality?  This  is  the  wonder.  We 
love  him,  not,  we  think  of  him,  not  because  he 
is  witty,  because  he  was  melancholy,  because  he 
was  filial;  but  we  love  him  because  he  existed,  and 
was  himself.  This  is  the  sum  total  of  the  impres- 
sion. I believe  that,  of  every  other  character, 
either  in  tragic  or  epic  poetry,  the  story  makes 
part  of  the  conception;  but  of  Hamlet,  the  deep 
and  permanent  interest  is  the  conception  of  him- 
self. This  seems  to  belong,  not  to  the  character 
being  more  perfectly  drawn,  but  to  there  being 
a more  intense  conception  of  individual  human 
life  than  perhaps  any  other  human  composition. 
Here  is  a being  with  springs  of  thought,  and  feel- 
ing, and  action,  deeper  than  we  can  search.  These 
springs  rise  from  an  unknown  depth,  and  in  that 
depth  there  seems  to  be  a oneness  of  being  which 
we  cannot  distinctly  behold,  but  which  we  believe 
to  be  there;  and  thus  irreconcilable  circum- 
stances, floating  on  the  surface  of  his  actions, 
have  not  the  effect  of  making  us  doubt  the  truth 
of  the  general  picture/’* 

This  is  all  most  admirable,  most  eloquent,  most 
true;  but  the  critic  subsequently  declares,  that 
“there  is  nothing  in  Ophelia  which  could  make 
her  the  object  of  an  engrossing  passion  to  so 
majestic  a spirit  as  Hamlet/’ 

• “Blackwood’s  Magazine,”  Vol.  II. 


Ophelia.  147 

Now,  though  it  he  with  reluctance,  and  even 
considerable  mistrust  of  myself,  that  I differ  from 
a critic  who  can  thus  feel  and  write,  I do  not  think 
so:  I do  think,  with  submission,  that  the  love  of 
Hamlet  for  Ophelia  is  deep,  is  real,  and  i§  precisely 
the  kind  of  love  which  such  a man  as  Hamlet 
would  feel  for  such  a woman  as  Ophelia. 

When  the  heathens  would  represent  their  Jove 
as  clothed  in  all  his  Olympian  terrors,  they 
mounted  him  on  the  back  of  an  eagle,  and  armed 
him  with  the  lightnings;  but  when  in  Holy  Writ 
the  Supreme  Being  is  described  as  coming  in  His 
glory,  He  is  upborne  on  the  wings  of  cherubim, 
and  His  emblem  is  the  dove.  Even  so  our  blessed 
religion,  which  has  revealed  deeper  mysteries  in  the 
human  soul  than  ever  were  dreamt  of  by  philos- 
ophy, till  she  went  hand-in-hand  with  faith,  has 
taught  us  to  pay  that  worship  to  the  symbols  of 
purity  and  innocence  which  in  darker  times  was 
paid  to  the  manifestations  of  power : and  therefore 
do  I think  that  the  mighty  intellect,  the  capacious, 
soaring,  penetrating  genius  of  Hamlet  may  be  rep- 
resented, without  detracting  from  its  grandeur  as 
reposing  upon  the  tender  virgin  innocence  of 
Ophelia,  with  all  that  deep  delight  with  which  a 
superior  nature  contemplates  the  goodness  which 
is  at  once  perfect  in  itself,  and  of  itself  uncon- 
scious. That  Hamlet  regards  Ophelia  with  this 
kind  of  tenderness — that  he  loves  her  with  a love  as 
intense  as  can  belong  to  a nature  in  which  there  is 
(I  think)  much  more  of  contemplation  and  sensi- 
bility than  action  or  passion — is  the  feeling  and 
conviction  with  which  I have  always  read  the  play 
of  “Hamlet.” 


148  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

As  to  whether  the  mind  of  Hamlet  be,  or  be 
not,  touched  with  madness — this  is  another  point 
at  issue  among  critics,  philosophers,  aye,  and 
physicians.  To  me  it  seems  that  he  is  not  so  far 
disordered  as  to  cease  to  be  a responsible  human 
being — that  were  too  pitiable:  but  rather  that  his 
mind  is  shaken  from  its  equilibrium  and  bewil- 
dered by  the  horrors  of  his  situation — horrors 
which  his  fine  and  subtle  intellect,  his  strong 
imagination,  and  his  tendency  to  melancholy,  at 
once  exaggerate,  and  take  from  him  the  power 
either  to  endure,  or,  “by  opposing,  end  them.” 
We  do  not  see  him  as  a lover,  nor  as  Ophelia  first 
beheld  him;  for  the  days  when  he  importuned  her 
with  love  were  before  the  opening  of  the  drama — * 
before  his  father’s  spirit  revisited  the  earth;  but 
we  behold  him  at  once  in  a sea  of  troubles,  of  per- 
plexities, of  agonies,  of  terrors.  Without  remorse 
he  endures  all  its  horrors;  without  guilt  he  endures 
all  its  shame.  A loathing  of  the  crime  he  is  called 
on  to  revenge,  which  revenge  is  again  abhorrent 
to  his  nature,  has  set  him  at  strife  with  himself; 
the  supernatural  visitation  has  perturbed  his  soul 
to  its  inmost  depths;  all  things  else,  all  interests,, 
all  hopes,  all  affections,  appear  as  futile,  when 
the  majestic  shadow  comes  lamenting  from  its 
place  of  torment,  “to  shake  him  with  thoughts 
beyond  the  reaches  of  his  soul!”  His  love  for 
Ophelia  is  then  ranked  by  himself  among  those 
trivial,  fond  records  which  he  has  deeply  sworn  to 
erase  from  his  heart  and  brain.  He  has  no 
thought  to  link  his  terrible  destiny  with  hers;  he 
cannot  marry  her;  he  cannot  reveal  to  her,  young, 
gentle,  innocent  as  she  is,  the  terrific  influences 


Ophelia.  149 

which  have  changed  the  whole  current  of  his  life 
and  purposes.  In  his  distraction  he  overacts  the 
painful  part  to  which  he  had  tasked  himself;  he 
is  like  that  judge  of  the  Areopagus,  who,  being 
occupied  with  graver  matters,  flung  from  him  the 
little  bird  which  had  sought  refuge  in  his  bosom, 
and  that  with  such  angry  violence,  that  unwit- 
tingly he  killed  it. 

In  the  scene  with  Hamlet,*  in  which  he  madly 
outrages  her  and  upbraids  himself,  Ophelia  says 
very  little:  there  are  two  short  Sentences  in  which 
she  replies  to  his  wild,  abrupt  discourse — 

Hamlet,  I did  love  you  once. 

Ophelia,  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Hamlet,  You  should  not  have  believed  me:  for  virtue  can- 
not so  inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it.  I 
loved  you  not. 

Ophelia,  I was  the  more  deceived. 

Those  who  ever  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  read  the 
play  of  Hamlet  cannot  forget  the  world  of  mean- 
ing, of  love,  of  sorrow,  of  despair  conveyed  in 
these  two  simple  phrases.  Here,  and  in  the  solilo- 
quy afterwards,  where  she  says — 

And  I of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 

That  suck’d  the  honey  of  his  music  vows. 

are  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her  own  feel- 
ings in  the  course  of  the  play;  and  these,  uttered 
almost  without  consciousness  on  her  own  part,  con- 
tain the  revelation  of  a life  of  love,  and  disclose  the 
secret  burthen  of  a heart  bursting  with  its  own 
unuttered  grief.  She  believes  Hamlet  crazed; 

* Act  III,  scene  1. 


150  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

she  is  repulsed,  she  is  forsaken,  she  is  outraged, 
where  she  had  bestowed  her  young  heart,  with 
all  its  hopes  and  wishes;  her  father  is  slain  by  the 
hand  of  her  lover,  as  it  is  supposed,  in  a paroxysm 
of  insanity:  she  is  ext  angled  inextricably  in  a web 
of  horrors  which  she  cannot  even  comprehend, 
and  the  result  seems  inevitable. 

Of  her  subsequent  madness,  what  can  be  said? 
What  an  affecting,  what  an  astonishing  picture 
of  a mind  utterly,  hopelessly  wrecked! — past  hope 
— past  cure!  There  is  the  frenzy  of  excited  pas- 
sion— there  is  the  madness  caused  by  intense  and 
continued  thought — there  is  the  delirium  of 
fevered  nerves;  but  Ophelia’s  madness  is  distinct 
from  these:  it  is  not  the  suspension,  but  the  utter 
destruction  of  the  reasoning  powers;  it  is  the  total 
imbecility  which,  as  medical  people  well  know, 
frequently  follows  some  terribly  shock  to  the 
spirits.  Constance  is  frantic;  Lear  is  mad; 
Ophelia  is  insane . Her  sweet  mind  lies  in  frag- 
ments before  us — a pitiful  spectacle!  Her  wild 
rambling  fancies;  her  aimless,  broken  speeches; 
her  quick  transitions  from  gayety  to  sadness — 
each  equally  purposeless  and  causeless;  her 
snatches  of  old  ballads,  such  as  perhaps  her  nurse 
sang  her  to  sleep  with  in  her  infancy — are  all  so 
true  to  the  life  that  we  forget  to  wonder,  and  can 
only  weep.  It  belonged  to  Shakspeare  alone  so  to 
temper  such  a picture  that  we  can  endure  to  dwell 
upon  it — 


Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness. 


Ophelia.  151 

That  in  her  madness  she  should  exchange  her 
bashful  silence  for  empty  babbling,  her  sweet 
maidenly  demeanor  for  the  impatient  restlessness 
that  spurns  at  straws,  and  say  and  sing  precisely 
what  she  never  would  or  could  have  uttered  had 
she  been  in  possession  of  her  reason,  is  so  far  from 
being  an  impropriety,  that  it  is  an  additional 
stroke  of  nature.  It  is  one  of  the  symptoms  in 
this  species  of  insanity,  as  we  are  assured  by 
physicians.  I have  myself  known  one  instance  in 
the  case  of  a young  Quaker  girl  whose  character 
resembled  that  of  Ophelia,  and  whose  malady 
arose  from  a similar  cause. 

The  whole  action  of  this  play  sweeps  past  us 
like  a torrent  which  hurries  along  in  its  dark  and 
resistless  course  all  the  personages  of  the  drama 
towards  a catastrophe  which  is  not  brought  about 
by  human  will,  but  seems  like  an  abyss  ready  dug 
to  receive  them,  where  the  good  and  the  wicked 
are  whelmed  together.*  As  the  character  of 
Hamlet  has  been  compared,  or  rather  contrasted, 
with  the  Greek  Orestes,  being,  like  him,  called  on 
to  avenge  a crime  by  a crime,  tormented  by  re- 
morseful doubts,  and  pursued  by  distraction,  so, 
to  me,  the  character  of  Ophelia  bears  a certain 
relation  to  that  of  the  Greek  Iphigenia,t  with  the 
same  strong  distinction  between  the  classical  and 
the  romantic  conception  of  the  portrait.  Iphigenia 
led  forth  to  sacrifice,  with  her  unresisting  tender- 
ness, her  mournful  sweetness,  her  virgin  inno- 
cence, is  doomed  to  perish  by  that  relentless  power 

* Goethe.  See  the  analysis  of  “Hamlet”  in  “Wilhelm 
Meister.” 

f The  “Iphigenia  in  Amlis”  of  Euripides. 


152  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

which  has  linked  her  destiny  with  crimes  and  con- 
tests, in  which  she  has  no  part  but  as  a sufferer; 
and  even  so  poor  Ophelia,  “divided  from  herself 
and  her  fair  judgment,”  appears  here  like  a spot- 
less victim  offered  up  to  the  mysterious  and  inex- 
orable Fates. 

“For  it  is  the  property  of  crime  to  extend  its 
mischiefs  over  innocence,  as  it  is  of  virtue  to  ex- 
tend its  blessings  over  many  that  deserve  them 
not,  while  frequently  the  author  of  one  or  the 
other  is  not,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  either  punished 
or  rewarded.”  * But  there’s  a heaven  above  us. 


* Goethe. 


MIRANDA. 


WE  might  have  deemed  it  impossible  to  go 
beyond  Viola,  Perdita,  and  Ophelia,  as 
pictures  of  feminine  beauty — to  exceed 
the  one  in  tender  delicacy,  the  other  in  ideal  grace, 
and  the  last  in  simplicity — if  Shakspeare  had  not 
done  this;  and  he  alone  could  have  done  it.  Had 
he  never  created  a Miranda,  we  should  never  have 
been  made  to  feel  how  completely  the  purely 
natural  and  the  purely  ideal  can  blend  into  each 
other. 

The  character  of  Miranda  resolves  itself  into  the 
very  elements  of  womanhood.  She  is  beautiful, 
modest,  and  tender,  and  she  is  these  only;  they 
comprise  her  whole  being,  external  and  internal. 
She  is  so  perfectly  unsophisticated,  so  delicately 
refined,  that  she  is  all  but  ethereal.  Let  us 
imagine  any  other  woman  placed  beside  Miranda 
— even  one  of  Shakspeare’s  own  loveliest  and 
sweetest  creations — there  is  not  one  of  them  that 
could  sustain  the  comparison  for  a moment;  not 
one  that  would  not  appear  somewhat  coarse  or 
artificial  when  brought  into  immediate  contact 
with  this  pure  child  of  nature,  this  “Eve  of  an  en- 
chanted Paradise.” 

What,  then,  has  Shakspeare  done? — “0  won- 
drous skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the  man!” — he  has  re- 
moved Miranda  far  from  all  comparison  with  her 
own  sex;  he  has  placed  her  between  the  demi- 


154  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

demon  of  earth  and  the  delicate  spirit  of  air.  The 
next  step  is  into  the  ideal  and  supernatural;  and 
the  only  being  who  approaches  Miranda,  with 
whom  she  can  be  contrasted,  is  Ariel.  Beside 
the  subtile  essence  of  this  ethereal  sprite,  this 
creature  of  elemental  light  and  air,  that  “ran 
upon  the  winds,  rode  the  curl’d  clouds,  and  in  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow  lived,”  Miranda  herself 
appears  a palpable  reality,  a woman,  “breathing 
thoughtful  breath,”  a woman,  walking  the  earth 
in  her  mortal  loveliness,  with  a heart  as  frail- 
strung,  as  passion-touched,  as  ever  fluttered  in  a 
female  bosom. 

I have  said  that  Miranda  possesses  merely  the 
elementary  attributes  of  womanhood;  but  each  of 
these  stand  in  her  with  a distinct  and  peculiar 
grace.  She  resembles  nothing  upon  earth:  but  do 
we  therefore  compare  her,  in  our  own  minds,  with 
any  of  those  fabled  beings  with  which  the  fancy 
of  ancient  poets  peopled  the  forest  depths,  the 
fountain,  or  the  ocean? — oread  or  dryad  fleet,  sea- 
maid or  naiad  of  the  stream?  We  cannot  think  of 
them  together.  Miranda  is  a consistent,  natural, 
human  being.  Our  impression  of  her  nymph-like 
beauty,  her  peerless  grace  and  purity  of  soul,  has 
a distinct  and  individual  character.  Hot  only  is 
she  exquisitely  lovely,  being  what  she  is,  but  we 
are  made  to  feel  that  she  could  not  possibly  be 
otherwise  than  as  she  is  portrayed.  She  has  never 
beheld  one  of  her  own  sex;  she  has  never  caught 
from  society  one  imitated  or  artificial  grace.  The 
impulses  which  have  come  to  her,  in  her  en- 
chanted solitude,  are  of  heaven  and  nature,  not  of 
the  world  and  its  vanities.  She  has  sprung  up  into 


Miranda. 


155 


beauty  beneath  the  eye  of  her  father*  the  princely 
magician;  her  companions  have  been  the  rocks  and 
woods*  the  many-shaped*  many-tinted  clouds*  and 
the  silent  stars;  her  playmates  the  ocean  billows* 
that  stooped  their  foamy  crests  and  ran  rippling 
to  kiss  her  feet.  Ariel  and  his  attendant  sprites 
hovered  over  her  head*  ministered  duteous  to  her 
every  wish*  and  presented  before  her  pageants  of 
beauty  and  grandeur.  The  very  air*  made  vocal 
by  her  father’s  art*  floated  in  music  around  her. 
If  we  can  presuppose  such  a situation  with  all 
its  circumstances*  do  we  not  behold  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Miranda  not  only  the  credible*  but  the  natu- 
ral* the  necessary  results  of  such  a situation?  She 
retains  her  woman’s  heart*  for  that  is  unalterable 
and  inalienable*  as  a part  of  her  being;  but  her 
deportment*  her  looks*  her  language*  her  thoughts 
— all  these*  from  the  supernatural  and  poetical 
circumstances  around  her  assume  a cast  of  the 
pure  ideal;  and  to  us*  who  are  in  the  secret  of  her 
human  and  pitying  nature*  nothing  can  be  more 
charming  and  consistent  than  the  effect  which 
she  produces  upon  others*  who  never  having  be- 
held anything  resembling  her*  approach  her  as 
“a  wonder*”  as  something  celestial — 

Be  sure!  the  goddess  on  whom  these  airs  attend! 

And  again — 

What  is  this  maid? 

Is  she  the  goddess  who  hath  sever’d  us, 

And  brought  us  thus  together? 


And  Ferdinand  exclaims*  while  gazing  on  her — 


156  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

My  spirits  as  in  a dream  are  all  bound  up! 

My  father’s  loss,  the  weakness  which  I feel, 

The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man’s  threats, 

To  whom  I am  suddued,  are  but  light  to  me, 

Might  I but  through  my  prison  once  a day 
Behold  this  maid:  all  corners  else  o’  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of,  space  enough 
Have  I in  such  a prison. 

Cantrasted  with  the  impression  of  her  refined 
and  dignified  beauty,  and  its  effect  on  all  behold- 
ers, is  Miranda’s  own  soft  simplicity,  her  virgin 
innocence,  her  total  ignorance  of  the  conventional 
forms  and  language  of  society.  It  is  most  natural 
that,  in  a being  thus  constituted,  the  first  tears 
should  spring  from  compassion,  “suffering  with 
those  that  she  saw  suffer” — 

O,  the  cry  did  knock 

Against  my  very  heart.  Poor  souls!  they  perish’d. 

Had  I been  any  god  of  power,  I would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e’er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallow’d, 

And  the  freighting  souls  within  her; 


and  that  her  first  sigh  should  be  offered  to  a love 
at  once  fearless  and  submissive,  delicate  and  fond. 
She  has  no  taught  scruples  of  honor  like  Juliet; 
no  coy  concealments  like  Viola;  no  assumed 
dignity  standing  in  its  own  defense.  Her  bash- 
fulness  is  less  a quality  than  an  instinct;  it  is  like 
the  self-folding  of  a flower,  spontaneous  and  un- 
conscious, I suppose  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind 
in  poetry  equal  to  the  scene  between  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda.  In  Ferdinand,  who  is  a noble 
creature,  we  have  all  the  chivalrous  magnanimity 
with  which  man,  in  a high  state  of  civilization, 


Miranda. 


157 


disguises  his  real  superiority,  and  does  humble 
homage  to  the  being  of  whose  destiny  he  disposes; 
while  Miranda,  the  mere  child  of  nature,  is  struck 
with  wonder  at  her  own  new  emotions.  Only  con- 
scious of  her  own  weakness  as  a woman,  and  igno- 
rant of  those  usages  of  society  which  teach  us  to 
dissemble  the  real  passion,  and  assume  (and  some- 
times abuse)  an  unreal  and  transient  power,  she 
is  equally  ready  to  place  her  life,  her  love,  her 
service  beneath  his  feet — 

Miranda . Alas,  now!  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard.  I would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin’d  to  pile! 

Pray,  set  it  down  and  rest  you.  When  this  burns, 

’Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.  My  father 
Is  hard  at  study;  pray  now,  rest  yourself; 

He’s  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Ferdinand.  O,  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I shall  discharge 
What  I must  strive  to  do. 

Miranda.  If  you’ll  sit  down, 

I’ll  bear  your  logs  the  while.  Pray,  give  me  that, 

I’ll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Ferdinand.  No,  precious  creature; 

I’d  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 

Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo 
While  I sit  lazy  by. 

Miranda.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you;  and  I should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 

And  yours  it  is  against. 

Miranda.  You  look  wearily. 

Ferdinand.  No,  noble  mistress;  ’tis  fresh  morning  with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.  I do  beseech  you 
(Chiefly  that  I might  set  it  in  my  prayers), 

What  is  your  name? 

Miranda.  Miranda.— O,  my  father, 

I have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so! 

Ferdinand.  Admir’d  Miranda! 


158 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration;  worth 
What’s  dearest  in  the  world!  Full  many  a lady 
I have  ey’d  with  best  regard;  and  many  a time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear.  For  several  virtues 
Have  I lik’d  several  women;  never  any 
WTith  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow’d 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.  But  you,  O you, 

So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature’s  best! 

Miranda.  I do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex;  no  woman’s  face  remember, 

Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own;  nor  have  I seen 
More  that  I may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 

And  my  dear  father.  How  features  are  abroad 
I am  skll-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower)  I would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you; 

Nor  can  imagination  form  a shape, 

Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.  But  I prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father’s  precepts 
I therein  do  forget. 

Ferdinand.  I am,  in  my  condition, 

A prince,  Miranda;  I do  think,  a king; 

(I  would,  not  so!)  and  would  no  more  endure 

This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suffer 

The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.  Hear  my  soul  speak; 

The  very  instant  that  I saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service;  there  resides, 

To  make  me  slave  to  it;  and,  for  your  sake, 

Am  I this  patient  log-man. 

Miranda.  Do  you  love  me? 

Ferdinand.  O heaven!  O earth!  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I profess  with  kind  event, 

If  I speak  true;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief.  I, 

Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i’  the  world, 

Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Miranda.  I am  a fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I am  glad  of. 

Ferdinand.  Wherefore  weep  you? 

Miranda.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 


Miranda. 


159 


What  I desire  to  give;  and  much  less  take 
What  I shall  die  to  want.  But  this  is  trifling; 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.  Hence,  bashful  cunning! 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence! 

I am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me; 

If  not,  I’ll  die  your  maid.  To  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me;  but  I’ll  be  your  servant, 

Whether  you  will  or  no! 

Ferdinand.  My  mistress,  dearest! 

And  I thus  humble  ever. 

Miranda.  My  husband,  then? 

Ferdinand.  Ay,  with  a heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e’er  of  freedom.  Here’s  my  hand. 

Miranda.  And  mine  with  my  heart  in ’t.  And  now  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 


As  Miranda,  being  what  she  is,  csmld  only  have 
had  a Ferdinand  for  her  lover,  and  an  Ariel  for 
an  attendant,  so  she  could  have  had  with  propriety 
no  other  father  than  the  majestic  and  gifted  being 
who  fondly  claims  her  as  “a  thread  of  his  own  life 
— nay,  that  for  which  he  lives.”  Prospero,  with 
his  magical  powers,  his  superhuman  wisdom,  his 
moral  worth  and  grandeur,  and  his  kingly  dignity, 
is  one  of  the  most  sublime  visions  that  ever  swept 
with  ample  robes,  pale  brow,  and  sceptred  hand 
before  the  eye  of  fancy.  He  controls  the  invisible 
world,  and  works  through  the  agency  of  spirits; 
not  by  any  evil  and  forbidden  compact,  but  solely 
by  superior  might  of  intellect — by  potent  spells 
gathered  from  the  lore  of  ages,  and  abjured  when 
he  mingles  again  as  a man  with  his  fellow-men. 
He  is  as  distinct  a being  from  the  necromancers 
and  astrologers  celebrated  in  Shakspeare’s  age  ’as 
can  well  be  imagined:*  and  all  the  wizards  of 

* Such  as  Cornelius  Agrippa.  Michael  Scott,  Dr.  Dee.  The 
last  was  the  contemporary  of  Shakspeare. 


160  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

poetry  and  fiction,  even  Faust  and  St.  Leon,  sink 
into  common-places  before  the  princely,  the  philo- 
sophic, the  benevolent  Prospero. 

The  Bermuda  Isles,  in  which  Shakspeare  has 
placed  the  scene  of  the  Tempest,  were  discovered 
in  his  time:  Sir  George  Somers  and  his  companions 
having  been  wrecked  there  in  a terrible  storm,* 
brought  back  a most  fearful  account  of  those  un- 
known islands,  which  they  described  as  “a  land 
of  devils — a most  prodigious  and  enchanted  place, 
subject  to  continual  tempests  and  supernatural 
visitings.”  Such  was  the  idea  entertained  of  the 
“still-vext  Bermoothes”  in  Shakspeare’s  age:  but 
later  travelers  describe  them  as  perfect  regions  of 
enchantment  in  a far  different  sense;  as  so  many 
fairy  Edens,  clustered  like  a knot  of  gems  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  decked  out  in  all  the 
lavish  luxuriance  of  nature,  with  shades  of  myrtle 
and  cedar,  fringed  round  with  groves  of  coral;  in 
short,  each  island  a tiny  paradise  rich  with  per- 
petual blossoms  in  which  Ariel  might  have  slum- 
bered, and  ever- verdant  bowers  in  which  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda  might  have  strayed:  so  that  Shak- 
speare, in  blending  the  wild  relations  of  the  ship- 
wrecked mariners  with  his  own  inspired  fancies, 
has  produced  nothing,  however  lovely  in  nature 
and  sublime  in  magical  power,  which  does  not 
harmonize  with  the  beautiful  and  wondrous 
reality. 

There  is  another  circumstance  connected  with 
the  “Tempest,”  which  is  rather  interesting.  It 
was  produced  and  acted  for  the  first  time  upon 

* In  lfi09,  about  three  years  before  Shakspeare  produced 
the  “Tempest, 99  which,  though  placed  first  in  all  editions  of 
his  works,  was  one  of  the  last  of  his  dramas. 


Miranda. 


161 


the  occasion  of  the  nupitals  of  the  Princess 
Elizabeth,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Janies  I,  with 
Frederic,  the  elector  palatine.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  remind  the  reader  of  the  fate  of  this 
amiable  but  most  unhappy  woman,  whose  life, 
almost  from  the  period  of  her  marriage,  was  one 
long  tempestuous  scene  of  trouble  and  adversity. 

The  characters  which  I have  here  classed  to- 
gether, as  principally  distinguished  by  the  pre- 
dominance of  passion  and  fancy,  appear  to  me  to 
rise,  in  the  scale  of  ideality  and  simplicity,  from 
Juliet  to  Miranda;  the  last  being  in  comparison 
so  refined,  so  elevated  above  all  stain  of  earth,  that 
we  can  only  acknowledge  her  in  connection  with 
it  through  the  emotions  of  sympathy  she  feels  and 
inspires. 

I remember,  when  I was  in  Italy,  standing  “at 
evening  on  the  top  of  Fesole,”  and  at  my  feet  I 
beheld  the  city  of  Florence  and  the  Yal  d’Arno, 
with  its  villas,  its  luxuriant  gardens,  groves,  and 
olive-grounds,  all  bathed  in  crimson  light.  A 
transparent  vapor  or  exhalation,  which  in  its  tint 
was  almost  as  rich  as  the  pomegranate  flower, 
moving  with  soft  undulation,  rolled  through  the 
valley,  and  the  very  earth  seemed  to  pant  with 
warm  life  beneath  its  rosy  veil.  A dark  purple 
shade,  the  forerunner  of  night,  was  already  steal- 
ing over  the  east;  in  the  western  sky  still  lingered 
the  blaze  of  the  sunset,  while  the  faint  perfume 
of  trees  and  flowers,  and  now  and  then  a strain 
of  music  wafted  upwards,  completed  the  intoxi- 
cation of  the  senses.  But  I looked  from  the  earth 
to  the  sky,  and  immediately  above  this  scene  hung 


162  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

the  soft  crescent  moon — alone,  with  all  the  bright 
heaven  to  herself:  and  as  that  sweet  moon  to 
the  glowing  landscape  beneath  it,  such  is  the 
■character  of  Miranda  compared  to  that  of  Juliet. 


Characters  of  the  Affections, 
f 


HERMIONE. 


HARACTERS  in  which  the  affections  and 


the  moral  qualities  predominate  over  fancy 


and  all  that  bears  the  name  of  passion  are 
not,  when  we  meet  with  them  in  real  life,  the 
most  striking  and  interesting,  nor  the  easiest  to 
be  understood  and  appreciated;  but  they  are  those 
on  which,  in  the  long  run,  we  repose  with  in- 
creasing confidence  and  ever-new  delight.  Such 
characters  are  not  easily  exhibited  in  the  colors 
of  poetry,  and  when  we  meet  with  them  there, 
we  are  reminded  of  the  effect  of  Raffaelle’s  picture. 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  assures  us  that  it  took  him 
three  weeks  to  discover  the  beauty  of  the  frescos 
in  the  Vatican;  and  many,  if  they  spoke  truth, 
would  prefer  one  of  Titian’s  or  Murillo’s  Virgins 
to  one  of  Raffaelle’s  heavenly  Madonnas.  The  less 
there  is  of  marked  expression  or  vivid  color  in  a 
countenance  or  character,  the  more  difficult  to 
delineate  it  in  such  a manner  as  to  captivate  and 
interest  us:  but  when  this  is  done,  and  done  to 
perfection,  it  is  the  miracle  of  poetry  in  painting, 
and  of  painting  in  poetry.  Only  Raffaelle  and 
Correggio  have  achieved  it  in  one  case,  and  only 
Shakspeare  in  the  other. 

When,  by  the  presence  or  the  agency  or  some 
predominant  and  exciting  power,  the  feelings  and 
affections  are  upturned  from  the  depths  of  the 
heart  and  flung  to  the  surface,  the  painter  or  the 


165 


166  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

poet  has  but  to  watch  the  workings  of  the  pas- 
sions, thus  in  a manner  made  visible,  and  transfer 
them  to  his  page  or  his  canvas  in  colors  more  or 
less  vigorous:  but  where  all  is  calm  without  and 
around,  to  dive  into  the  profoundest  abysses  of 
character,  trace  the  affections  where  they  lie 
hidden  like  the  ocean  springs,  wind  into  the  most 
intricate  involutions  of  the  heart,  patiently  un- 
ravel its  most  delicate  fibres,  and  in  a few  grace- 
ful touches  place  before  us  the  distinct  and  visible 
result — to  do  this  demanded  power  of  another  and 
a rarer  kind. 

There  are  several  of  Shakspeare’s  characters 
which  are  especially  distinguished  by  this  pro- 
found feeling  in  the  conception,  and  subdued 
harmony  of  tone  in  the  delineation.  To  them 
may  be  particularly  applied  the  ingenious  simile 
which  Goethe  has  used  to  illustrate  generally  all 
Shakspeare’s  characters  when  he  compares  them 
to  the  old-fashioned  watches  in  glass  cases,  which 
not  only  showed  the  index  pointing  to  the  hour, 
but  the  wheels  and  springs  within  which  set  that 
index  in  motion. 

Imogen,  Desdemona,  and  Hermione  are  three 
women  placed  in  situations  nearly  similar,  and 
equally  endowed  with  all  the  qualities  which  can 
render  that  situation  striking  and  interesting. 
They  are  all  gentle,  beautiful,  and  innocent;  all 
are  models  of  conjugal  submission,  truth,  and 
tenderness;  and  all  are  victims  of  the  unfounded 
jealousy  of  their  husbands.  So  far  the  parallel 
is  close,  but  here  the  resemblance  ceases;  the  cir- 
cumstances of  each  situation  are  varied  with  won- 
derful skill,  and  the  characters,  which  are  as  dif- 


Hermione. 


16  T 


ferent  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine,  conceived  and 
discriminated  with  a power  of  truth  and  a delicacy 
of  feeling  yet  more  astonishing. 

Critically  speaking,  the  character  of  Hermione- 
is  the  most  simple  in  point  of  dramatic  effect;  that 
of  Imogen  is  the  most  varied  and  complex.  Her- 
mione is  most  distinguished  by  her  magnanimity 
and  her  fortitude,  Desdemona  by  her  gentleness* 
and  refined  grace,  while  Imogen  combines  all  the 
best  qualities  of  both,  with  others  which  they  do 
not  possess:  consequently  she  is,  as  a character, 
superior  to  either;  but  considered  as  women,  I 
suppose  the  preference  would  depend  on  indi- 
vidual taste. 

Hermione  is  the  heroine  of  the  three  first  acts 
of  the  “Winter’s  Tale.”  She  is  the  wife  of 
Leontes,  King  of  Sicilia,  and  though  in  the  prime 
of  beauty  and  womanhood,  is  not  represented  in 
the  first  bloom  of  youth.  Her  husband  on  slight 
grounds  suspects  her  of  infidelity  with  his  friend 
Polixenes,  King  of  Bohemia:  the  suspicion  once 
admitted,  and  working  on  a jealous,  passionate, 
and  vindictive  mind,  becomes  a settled  and  con- 
firmed opinion.  Hermione  is  thrown  into  a dun- 
geon; her  new-born  infant  is  taken  from  her,  and, 
by  the  order  of  her  husband,  frantic  with  jealousy, 
exposed  to  death  on  a desert  shore;  she  is  herself 
brought  to  a public  trial  for  treason  and  incon- 
tinency,  defends  herself  nobly,  and  is  pronounced 
innocent  by  the  oracle.  But  at  the  very  moment 
that  she  is  acquitted,  she  learns  the  death  of  the 
prince  her  son,  who — 


168  Shakspearebs  Heroines. 

Conceiving  the  dishonor  of  his  mother, 

Had  straight  declined,  droop’d,  took  it,  deeply, 
Fasten’d  and  fix’d  the  shame  on  ’t  in  himself, 

Threw  off  his  spirit,  appetite,  and  sleep, 

And  downright  languish’d. 

She  swoons  away  with  grief,  and  her  supposed 
death  concludes  the  third  act.  The  two  last  acts 
are  occupied  with  the  adventures  of  her  daughter 
Perdita;  and  with  the  restoration  of  Perdita  to  the 
arms  of  her  mother,  and  the  reconciliation  of  Her- 
mione and  Leontes,  the  piece  concludes. 

Such,  in  a few  words,  is  the  dramatic  situation. 
The  character  of  Hermione  exhibits  what  is  never 
found  in  the  other  sex,  but  rarely  in  our  own — yet 
sometimes; — dignity  without  pride,  love  without 
passion,  and  tenderness  without  weakness.  To 
conceive  a character  in  which  there  enters  so 
much  of  the  negative,  required  perhaps  no  rare 
and  astonishing  effort  of  genius,  such  as  created 
a Juliet,  a Miranda,  or  a Lady  Macbeth:  but  to 
delineate  such  a character  in  the  poetical  form, 
to  develop  it  through  the  medium  of  action  and 
dialogue,  without  the  aid  of  description;  to  pre- 
serve its  tranquil,  mild,  and  serious  beauty,  its 
unimpassioned  dignity,  and  at  the  same  time  keep 
the  strongest  hold  upon  our  sympathy  and  our 
imagination;  and  out  of  this  exterior  calm  pro- 
duce the  most  profound  pathos,  the  most  vivid 
impression  of  life  and  internal  power: — it  is  this 
which  renders  the  character  of  Hermione  one  of 
Shakspeare’s  masterpieces. 

Hermione  is  a queen,  a matron,  and  a mother; 
she  is  good  and  beautiful,  and  royally  descended. 
A majestic  sweetness,  a grand  and  gracious  sim- 


Hermione. 


.169 


plicity,  an  easy,  unforced,  yet  dignified  self-pos- 
session, are  in  all  her  deportment  and  in  every 
word  she  utters.  She  is  one  of  those  characters 
of  whom  it  has  been  said  proverbially  that  “still 
waters  run  deep.”  Her  passions  are  not  vehement, 
but  in  her  settled  mind  the  sources  of  pain  or 
pleasure,  love  or  resentment,  are  like  the  springs 
that  feed  the  mountain  lakes,  impenetrable,  un- 
fathomable, and  inexhaustible. 

Shakspeare  has  conveyed  (as  is  his  custom)  a 
part  of  the  character  of  Hermione  in  scattered 
touches,  and  through  the  impressions  which  she 
produces  on  all  around  her.  Her  surpassing 
beauty  is  alluded  to  in  few  but  strong  terms — 


This  jealousy 

Is  for  a precious  creature:  as  she’s  rare, 

Must  it  be  great. 

Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech). 

If  one  by  one  you  wedded  all  the  world, 

Or  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good 
To  make  a perfect  woman,  she  you  kill’d 
Would  be  unparallel’d. 

I might  have  look’d  upon  my  queen’s  full  eyes, 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, 

....  and  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 


The  expressions  “most  sacred  lady,”  “dread  mis- 
tress,” “sovereign,”  with  which  she  is  addressed 
or  alluded  to,  the  boundless  devotion  and  respect 
of  those  around  her,  and  their  confidence  in  her 
goodness  and  innocence,  are  so  many  additional 
strokes  in  the  portrait — 


170 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

For  her,  my  lord, 

I dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do  % sir, 
Please  you  t’  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
r the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you. 

Every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 

Ay,  every  dram  of  woman’s  flesh  is  false, 

If  she  be. 

I would  not  be  a stander-by  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken! 


The  mixture  of  playful  courtesy,  queenly  dig- 
nity, and  lady-like  sweetness,  with  which  she 
prevails  on  Polixenes  to  prolong  his  visit  is 
charming — 


Hermione.  You’ll  stay? 

Polixenes.  No,  madam. 

Hermione.  Nay,  but  you  will. 

Polixenes.  I may  not,  verily. 

Hermione.  Verily! 

You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows;  but  I, 

Tho’  you  would  seek  t’  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 
Should  still  say,  “Sir,  no  going!”  Verily, 

You  shall  not  go!  A lady’s  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a lord’s.  Will  you  go  yet? 

Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a prisoner, 

Not  like  a guest? 


And  though  the  situation  of  Hermione  admits  but 
of  few  general  reflections,  one  little  speech,  in- 
imitably beautiful  and  characteristic,  has  become 
almost  proverbial  from  its  truth.  She  says — 

One  good  deed,  dying  tongueless, 
Slaughters  a thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 

Our  praises  are  our  wages;  you  may  ride  us 
With  one  soft  kiss  a thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre. 


Hermione. 


171 


She  receives  the  first  intimation  of  her  hus- 
band’s jealous  suspicions  with  incredulous  aston- 
ishment. It  is  not  that,  like  Desdemona,  she  does 
not  or  cannot  understand,  but  she  will  not.  When 
he  accuses  her  more  plainly,  she  replies  with  a 
calm  dignity — 

Should  a villain  say  so— 

The  most  replenish’d  villain  in  the  world— 

He  were  as  much  more  villain;  you,  my  lord, 

Do  but  mistake. 

This  characteristic  composure  of  temper  never 
forsakes  her,  and  yet  it  is  so  delineated  that  the 
impression  is  that  of  grandeur,  and  never  borders 
upon  pride  or  coldness:  it  is  the  fortitude  of  a 
gentle  but  strong  mind,  conscious  of  its  own  inno- 
cence. Nothing  can  be  more  affecting  than  her 
calm  reply  to  Leontes,  who  in  his  jealous  rage, 
heaps  insult  upon  insult,  and  accuses  her  before 
her  own  attendants  as  no  better  “than  one  of  those 
to  whom  the  vulgar  give  bold  titles” — 

* How  will  this  grieve  you 

When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  have  thus  publish’d  me!  Gentle  my  lord, 

You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Her  mild  dignity  and  saint-like  patience,  com- 
bined as  they  are  with  the  strongest  sense  of  the 
cruel  injustice  of  her  husband,  thrill  us  with  ad- 
miration as  well  as  pity;  and  we  cannot  but  see 
and  feel,  that  for  Hermione  to  give  wny  to  tears 
and  feminine  complaints  under  such  a blow  would 
be  quite  incompatible  with  the  character.  Thus 
she  says  of  herself,  as  she  is  led  to  prison — 


172  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

There’s  some  ill  planet  reigns: 

I must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 

With  an  aspect  more  favorable.  Good  my  lords, 

I am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities;  but  I have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here  that  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drawn.  Beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me;  and  so 
The  king’s  will  be  performed. 

When  she  is  brought  to  trial  for  supposed 
crimes,  called  on  to  defend  herself,  “standing  to 
prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor  before  who  please 
to  come  and  hear”  the  sense  of  her  ignominious 
situation,  all  its  shame  and  all  its  horrors  press 
upon  her,  and  would  apparently  crush  even  her 
magnanimous  spirit,  but  for  the  consciousness  of 
her  own  worth  and  innocence,  and  the  necessity 
that  exists  for  asserting  and  defending  both — 

If  powers  divine 

Behold  our  human  action  (as  they  do), 

I doubt  not,  then  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. 

****** 

For  life,  I prize  it 

As  I weigh  grief,  which  I would  spare.  For  honor, 

’Tis  a derivative  from  me  to  mine, 

And  only  that  I stand  for. 

Her  earnest,  eloquent  justification  of  herself, 
and  her  lofty  sense  of  female  honor,  are  rendered 
more  affecting  and  impressive  by  that  chilling 
despair,  that  contempt  for  a life  which  has  been 
made  bitter  to  her  through  unkindness,  which  is 
betrayed  in  every  word  of  her  speech,  though  so 


Hermione. 


173 


calmly  characteristic.  When  she  enumerates  the 
unmerited  insults  which  have  been  heaped  upon 
her,  it  is  without  asperity  or  reproach,  yet  in  a 
tone  which  shows  how  completely  the  iron  has  en- 
tered her  soul.  Thus,  when  Leontes  threatens  her 
with  death — 

Sir,  spare  your  threats: 

The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I seek. 

To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity; 

The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favor, 

I do  give  lost;  for  I do  feel  it  gone, 

But  know  not  how  it  went.  My  second  joy, 

The  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I am  barr’d,  like  one  infectious.  My  third  comfort— 
Starr’d  most  unluckily !— is  from  my  breast, 

The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 

Haled  out  to  murder.  Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim’d  a strumpet;  with  immodest  hatred, 

The  child-bed  privileges  denied,  which  ’longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion.  Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i’  the  open  air,  before 
I have  got  strength  of  limit.  Now,  my  liege, 

Tell  me  what  blessings  I have  here  alive 
That  I should  fear  to  die.  Therefore,  proceed: 

But  yet  hear  this:  mistake  me  not.  No!  life, 

I prize  it  not  a straw;  but  for  mine  honor 
(Which  I would  free),  if  I shall  be  condemn’d 
Upon  surmises,  all  proofs  sleeping  else 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake,  I tell  you 
’Tis  rigor  and  not  law. 

The  character  of  Hermione  is  considered  open 
to  criticism  on  one  point.  I have  heard  it  re- 
marked, that  when  she  secludes  herself  from  the 
world  for  sixteen  years,  during  which  time  she  is 
mourned  as  dead  by  her  repentant  husband,  and 
is  not  won  to  relent  from  her  resolve  by  his  sor- 
row, his  remorse,  his  constancy  to  her  memory: 
such  conduct,  argues  the  critic,  is  unfeeling  as  it 


174  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

is  inconceivable  in  a tender  and  virtuous  woman. 
Would  Imogen  have  done  so,  who  is  so  gener- 
ously ready  to  grant  a pardon  before  it  be 
asked,  or  Desdemona,  who  does  not  forgive  be- 
cause she  cannot  even  resent?  Ho,  assuredly;  but 
this  is  only  another  proof  of  the  wonderful  deli- 
cacy and  consistency  with  which  Shakspeare  has 
discriminated  the  characters  of  all  three.  The  in- 
cident of  Hermione’s  supposed  death  and  conceal- 
ment for  sixteen  years  is  not  indeed  very  probable 
in  itself,  nor  very  likely  to  occur  in  every-day  life. 
But,  besides  all  the  probability  necessary  for  the 
purposes  of  poetry,  it  has  all  the  likelihood  it  can 
derive  from  the  peculiar  character  of  Hermione, 
who  is  precisely  the  woman  who  could  and  would 
have  acted  in  this  manner.  In  such  a mind  as 
hers,  the  sense  of  a cruel  injury,  inflicted  by  one 
she  had  loved  and  trusted,  without  awakening  any 
violent  anger  or  any  desire  of  vengeance,  would 
sink  deep — almost  incurably  and  lastingly  deep. 
So  far  she  is  most  unlike  either  Imogen  or  Des- 
demona, who  are  portrayed  as  much  more  flexible 
in  temper;  but  then  the  circumstances  under 
which  she  is  wronged  are  very  different,  and  far 
more  unpardonable.  The  self-created,  frantic 
jealousy  of  Leontes  is  very  distinct  from  that  of 
Othello,  writhing  under  the  arts  of  Iago;  or  that 
of  Posthumus,  whose  understanding  had  been 
cheated  by  the  most  damning  evidence  of  his 
wife’s  infidelity.  The  jealousy,  which  in  Othello 
and  Posthumus . is  an  error  of  judgment,  in 
Leontes  is  a vice  of  the  blood.  He  suspects  with- 
out cause,  condemns  without  proof;  he  is  without 
excuse — unless  the  mixture  of  pride,  passion,  and 


Hermione. 


175 


imagination,  and  the  predisposition  to  jealously, 
with  which  Shakspeare  has  portrayed  him,  be  con- 
sidered as  an  excuse.  Hermione  has  been  openly 
insulted:  he  to  whom  she  grave  herself,  her  heart, 
her  soul,  has  stooped  to  the  weakness  and  baseness 
of  suspicion,  has  doubted  her  truth,  has  wronged 
her  love,  has  sunk  in  her  esteem  and  forfeited  her 
confidence.  She  has  been  branded  with  vile 
names.  Her  son,  her  eldest  hope,  is  dead — dead 
through  the  false  accusation  which  has  stuck  in- 
famy on  his  mother’s  name;  and  her  innocent 
babe,  stained  with  illegitimacy,  disowned  and  re- 
jected, has  been  exposed  to  a cruel  death.  Can  we 
believe  that  the  mere  tardy  acknowledgment  of 
her  innocence  could  make  amends  for  wrongs  and 
agonies  such  as  these,  or  heal  a heart  which  must 
have  bled  inwardly,  consumed  by  that  untold 
grief  “which  burns  worse  than  tears  drown  ?” 
Keeping  in  view  the  peculiar  character  of  Her- 
mione, such  as  she  is  delineated,  is  she  one  either 
to  forgive  hastily  or  forget  quickly?  And  though 
she  might,  in  her  solitude,  mourn  over  her  re- 
pentant husband,  would  his  repentance  suffice  to 
restore  him  at  once  to  his  place  in  her  heart,  to 
efface  from  her  strong  and  reflecting  mind  the 
recollection  of  his  miserable  weakness?  Or  can  we 
fancy  this  high-souled  woman — left  childless 
through  the  injury  which  has  been  inflicted  on 
her,  widowed  in  heart  by  the  unworthiness  of  him 
she  loved,  a spectacle  of  grief  to  all,  to  her  husband 
a continual  reproach  and  humiliation— walking 
through  the  parade  of  royalty  in  the  court  which 
had  witnessed  her  anguish,  her  shame,  her  degra- 
dation, and  her  despair?  Methinks  that  the  want 


176  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

of  feelings  nature,  delicacy,  and  consistency  would 
lie  in  such  an  exhibition  as  this.  In  a mind  like 
Hermione’s,  where  the  strength  of  feeling  is 
founded  in  the  power  of  thought,  and  where  there 
is  little  of  impulse  or  imagination — “the  depth, 
but  not  the  tumult  of  the  sour** — there  are  but 
two  influences  which  predominate  over  the  will — 
time  and  religion.  And  what  then  remained  but 
that,  wounded  in  heart  and  spirit,  she  should  re- 
tire from  the  world? — not  to  brood  over  her 
wrongs,  but  to  study  forgiveness,  and  wait  the 
fulfilment  of  the  oracle  which  had  promised  the 
termination  of  her  sorrows.  Thus,  a premature 
reconciliation  would  not  only  have  been  painfully 
inconsistent  with  the  character;  it  would  also  have 
deprived  us  of  that  most  beautiful  scene,  in  which 
Hermione  is  discovered  to  her  husband  as  the 
statue  or  image  of  herself.  And  here  we  have  an- 
other instance  of  that  admirable  art  with  which  the 
dramatic  character  is  fitted  to  the  circumstances 
in  W'hich  it  is  placed.  That  perfect  command  over 
her  own  feelings,  that  complete  self-possession 
necessary  to  this  extraordinary  situation,  is  con- 
sistent with  all  that  we  imagine  of  Hermione;  in 
any  other  woman  it  would  be  so*  incredible  as  to 
shock  all  our  ideas  of  probability. 

This  scene,  then,  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque and  striking  instances  of  stage  effect  to 
be  found  in  the  ancient  or  modern  drama,  but 

* The  gods  opprove 

The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul. 

—Wordsworth. 

“II  pouvait  y avoir  des  vagues  majestueuses  et  non  l’orage 
dans  son  c-ceur,”  was  finely  observed  of  Madame  de  Stael  in 
her  mature  years.  It  would  have  been  true  of  Hermione  at 
any  period  of  her  life. 


Hermione. 


177 


by  the  skilful  manner  in  which  it  is  prepared  it 
has,  wonderful  as  it  appears,  all  the  merit  of  con- 
sistency and  truth.  The  grief,  the  love,  the  re- 
morse and  impatience  of  Leontes  are  finely  con- 
trasted with  the  astonishment  and  admiration  of 
Perdita,  who  gazing  on  the  figure  of  her  mother 
like  one  entranced,  looks  as  if  she  were  also  turned 
to  marble.  There  is  here  one  little  instance  of 
tender  remembrance  in  Leontes  which  adds  to  the 
charming  impression  of  Hermione’s  character — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone!  that  I may  say  Indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione;  or  rather  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace. 

Thus  she  stood, 

Even  with  such  life  of  majesty— warm  life — 

As  now  it  coldly  stands— when  first  I woo’d  her! 

The  effect  produced  on  the  different  persons  of 
the  drama  by  this  living  statue — an  effect  which 
at  the  same  moment  is  and  is  not  illusion — the 
manner  in  which  the  feelings  of  the  spectators 
become  entangled  between  the  conviction  of  death 
and  the  impression  of  life,  the  idea  of  a deception 
and  the  feeling  of  a reality,  and  the  exquisite 
coloring  of  poetry  and  touches  of  natural  feeling 
with  which  the  whole  is  wrought  up,  till  wonder, 
expectation,  and  intense  pleasure  hold  our  pulse 
and  breath  suspended  on  the  event,  are  quite  in- 
imitable. 

The  expressions  used  here  by  Leontes — 

Thus  she  stood, 

Even  with  such  life  of  majesty— warm  life. 

The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in  ’t, 

And  we  are  mock’d  with  art! 

and  by  Polixenes — 

The  very  life  seems  warm  unon  her  lip, 


178  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

appear  strangely  applied  to  a statue,  such  as  we 
usually  imagine  it,  of  the  cold,  colorless  marble; 
but  it  is  evident  that  in  this  scene  Hermione  per- 
sonates one  of  those  images  or  effigies,  such  as  we 
may  see  in  the  old  Gothic  cathedrals,  in  which 
the  stone  or  marble  was  colored  after  nature.  I 
remember  coming  suddenly  upon  one  of  these 
effigies,  either  at  Basle  or  at  Fribourg,  which  made 
me  start.  The  figure  was  large  as  life;  the  drapery 
of  crimson,  powdered  with  stars  of  gold;  the  face 
and  eyes  and  hair  tinted  after  nature,  though 
faded  by  time.  It  stood  in  a Gothic  niche,  over  a 
tomb,  as  I think,  and  in  a kind  of  dim,  uncertain 
light.  It  would  have  been  very  easy  for  a living 
person  to  represent  such  an  effigy,  particularly  if 
it  had  been  painted  by  that  “rare  Italian  master, 
Julio  Romano,”*  who,  as  we  are  informed,  was 
the  reputed  author  of  this  wonderful  statue. 

The  moment  when  Hermione  descends  from  her 
pedestal  to  the  sound  of  soft  music,  and  throws 
herself,  without  speaking,  into  her  husband’s  arms, 
is  one  of  inexpressible  interest.  It  appears  to  me 
that  her  silence  during  the  whole  of  this  scene 
(except  where  she  invokes  a blessing  on  her  daugh- 
ter’s head)  is  in  the  finest  taste  as  a poetical 
beauty,  besides  being  an  admirable  trait  of 
character.  The  misfortunes  of  Hermione,  her 
long  religious  seclusion,  the  wonderful  and  almost 
supernatural  part  she  has  just  enacted,  have  in- 
vested her  with  such  a sacred  and  awful  charm, 
that  any  words  put  into  her  mouth  must,  I think, 
have  injured  the  solemn  and  profound  pathos  of 
the  situation. 

* ‘‘Winter’s  Tale,”  Act  V,  scene  2. 


Hermione. 


179 


There  are  several  among  Shakspeare’s  charac- 
ters which  exercise  a far  stronger  power  over  our 
feelings,  our  fancy,  our  understanding,  than  that 
of  Hermione;  but  not  one — unless,  perhaps, 
Cordelia — constructed  upon  so  high  and  pure  a 
principle.  It  is  the  union  of  gentleness  with 
power  which  constitutes  the  perfection  of  mental 
grace.  Thus  among  the  ancients,  with  whom  the 
graces  were  also  the  charities  (to  show,  perhaps, 
that  while  form  alone  may  constitute  beauty,  sen- 
timent is  necessary  to  grace),  one  and  the  same 
word  signified  equally  strength  and  virtue.  This 
feeling,  carried  into  the  fine  arts,  was  the  secret 
of  the  antique  grace — the  grace  of  repose.  The 
same  eternal  nature — the  same  sense  of  immuta- 
ble truth  and  beauty — which  revealed  this  sub- 
lime principle  of  art  to  the  ancient  Greeks,  re- 
vealed it  to  the  genius  of  Shakspeare;  and  the 
character  of  Hermione,  in  which  we  have  the  same 
largeness  of  conception  and  delicacy  of  execution 
— the  same  effect  of  suffering  without  passion,  and 
grandeur  without  effort — is  an  instance,  I think, 
that  he  felt  within  himself,  and  by  intuition, 
what  we  study  all  our  lives  in  the  remains  of 
ancient  art.  The  calm,  regular,  classical  beauty 
of  Hermione’s  character  is  the  more  impressive 
from  the  wild  and  Gothic  accompaniments  of  her 
story,  and  the  beautiful  relief  afforded  by  the  pas- 
toral and  romantic  grace  which  is  thrown  around 
her  daughter  Perdita. 

The  character  of  Paulina  in  the  “Winter’s 
Tale,”  though  it  has  obtained  but  little  notice,  and 
no  critical  remark  (that  I have  seen),  is  yet  one 
of  the  striking  beauties  of  the  play;  and  it  has  its 


180  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

moral  too.  As  we  see  running  through  the  whole 
universe  that  principle  of  contrast  which  may  he 
called  the  life  of  nature,  so  we  behold  it  every- 
where illustrated  in  Shakspeare:  upon  this  prin- 
ciple he  has  placed  Emilia  beside  Desdemona, 
the  nurse  beside  Juliet;  the  clowns  and  dairy- 
maids, and  the  merry  peddler  thief  Autolycus, 
round  Florizel  and  Perdita;  and  made  Paulina  the 
friend  of  Hermione. 

Paulina  does  not  fill  any  ostensible  office  near 
the  person  of  the  queen,  but  is  a lady  of  high  rank 
in  the  court — the  wife  of  the  Lord  Antigones. 
She  is  a character  strongly  drawn  from  real  and 
common  life — a clever,  generous,  strong-minded, 
warm-hearted  woman,  fearless  in  asserting  the 
truth,  firm  in  her  sense  of  right,  enthusiastic  in 
all  her  affections;  quick  in  thought,  resolute  in 
word,  and  energetic  in  action;  but  heedless,  hot- 
tempered,  impatient,  loud,  bold,  voluble,  and  tur- 
bulent of  tongue;  regardless  of  the  feelings  of 
those  for  whom  she  would  sacrifice  her  life,  and 
injuring  from  excess  of  zeal  those  whom  she  most 
wishes  to  serve.  How  many  such  are  there  in  the 
world!  But  Paulina,  though  a very  termagant, 
is  yet  a poetical  termagant  in  her  way;  and  the 
manner  in  which  all  the  evil  and  dangerous  ten- 
dencies of  such  a temper  are  placed  before  us,  even 
while  the  individual  character  preserves  the 
strongest  hold  upon  our  respect  and  admiration, 
forms  an  impressive  lesson,  as  well  as  a natural 
and  delightful  portrait. 

In  the  scene,  for  instance,  where  she  brings  the 
infant  before  Leontes  with  the  hope  of  softening 
him  to  a sense  of  his  injustice — “an  office  which,” 


Hermione. 


181 


as  she  observes,  “becomes  a woman  best” — her 
want  of  self-government,  her  bitter,  inconsiderate 
reproaches,  only  add,  as  we  might  easily  suppose, 
to  his  fury — 


Paulina.  I say  I come 

From  your  good  queen! 

Leontes.  Good  queen! 

Paulina.  Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen;  I say  good 
queen ; 

And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A man,  the  worst  about  you. 

Leontes . Force  her  hence. 

Paulina.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 
First  hand  me:  on  mine  own  accord,  I’ll  off; 

But,  first,  I’ll  do  mine  errand,— The  good  queen 
(For  she  is  good)  hath  brought  you  forth  a daughter— 
Here  ’tis;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

Leontes.  Traitors! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out?  Give  her  the  bastard. 

Paulina.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak’st  up  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon  ’t! 

Leontes.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

Paulina.  So  I would  you  did;  then  ’twere  past  all  doubt 
You’d  call  your  children  yours. 

Leontes.  A callat, 

Of  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband, 
And  now  baits  me!— This  brat  is  none  of  mine! 

Paulina.  It  is  yours, 

And  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge, 

So  like  you,  ’tis  the  worse. 

*«•*** 

Leontes.  A gross  hag! 

And  lozel,  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang’d, 

That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

Antigones.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you’ll  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

Leontes.  Once  more,  take  her  heneel 


182  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Paulina.  A most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

Leontes.  I’ll  ha’  thee  burn’d. 

Paulina.  I care  not; 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire, 

Not  she  which  burns  in  ’t. 

Here,  while  we  honor  her  courage  and  affection, 
we  cannot  help  regretting  her  violence.  We  see, 
too,  in  Paulina,  what  we  so  often  see  in  real  life, 
that  it  is  not  those  who  are  most  susceptible  in 
their  own  temper  and  feelings  who  are  most  deli- 
cate and  forbearing  towards  the  feelings  of  others. 
She  does  not  comprehend,  or  will  not  allow  for, 
the  sensitive  weakness  of  a mind  less  firmly  tem- 
pered than  her  own.  There  is  a reply  of  Leontes 
to  one  of  her  cutting  speeches  which  is  full  of 
feeling,  and  a lesson  to  those  who,  with  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world,  force  the  painful  truth 
like  a knife  into  the  already  lacerated  heart — 

Paulina . If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world, 

Or,  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  good, 

To  make  a perfect  woman,  she  you  kill’d 
Would  be  unparallel’d. 

Leontes.  I think  so.  Kill’d! 

She  I kill’d?  I did  so;  but  thou  strik’st  me 

Sorely,  to  say  I did;  it  is  as  bitter 

Upon  thy  tongue,  as  in  my  thought.  Now,  good  now, 

Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleomenes.  Not  at  all,  good  lady; 

You  might  have  spoken  a thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac’d 
Your  kindness  better. 

We  can  only  excuse  Paulina  by  recollecting  that 
it  is  a part  of  her  purpose  to  keep  alive  in  the 
heart  of  Leontes  the  remembrance  of  his  queen’s 

* 


Hermione. 


183 


perfections,  and  of  his  own  ®ruel  injustice.  It  is 
admirable,  too,  that  Hermione  and  Paulina,  while 
sufficiently  approximated  to  afford  all  the  pleasure 
of  contrast,  are  never  brought  too  nearly  in  con- 
tact on  the  scene  or  in  the  dialogue;*  for  this 
would  have  been  a fault  in  taste,  and  have  neces- 
sarily weakened  the  effect  of  both  characters: 
either  the  serene  grandeur  of  Hermione  would 
have  subdued  and  overawed  the  fiery  spirit  of 
Paulina,  or  the  impetuous  temper  of  the  latter 
must  have  disturbed  in  some  respect  our  impres- 
sion of  the  calm,  majestic,  and  somewhat  melan- 
choly beauty  of  Hermione. 

♦ Only  in  the  last  scene,  when,  with  solemnity  befitting 
the  occasion,  Paulina  invokes  the  majestic  figure  to  “de- 
scend, and  be  stone  no  more,”  and  where  she  presents  her 
daughter  to  her,  “Turn,  good  lady,  our  Perdita  is  found.” 


DESDEMONA. 


THE  character  of  Hermione  is  addressed  more 
to  the  imagination;  that  of  Desdemona  to 
the  feelings.  All  that  can  render  sorrow 
majestic  is  gathered  round  Hermione;  all  that 
can  render  misery  heart-breaking  is  assembled 
round  Desdemona.  The  wronged  but  self-sus- 
tained virtue  of  Hermione  commands  our  venera- 
tion; the  injured  and  defenseless  innocence  of  Des- 
demona so  wrings  the  soul  “that  all  for  pity  we 
could  die.” 

Desdemona,  as  a character,  comes  nearest  to 
Miranda,  both  in  herself  as  a woman,  and  in  the 
perfect  simplicity  and  unity  of  the  delineation;  the 
figures  are  differently  draped,  the  proportions  are 
the  same.  There  is  the  same  modesty,  tenderness, 
and  grace;  the  same  artless  devotion  in  the  affec- 
tions, the  same  predisposition  to  wonder,  to  pity, 
to  admire;  the  same  almost  ethereal  refinement 
and  delicacy.  But  all  is  pure  poetic  nature  within 
Miranda  and  around  her;  Desdemona  is  more  asso- 
ciated with  the  palpable  realities  of  every-day  ex- 
istence, and  we  see  the  forms  and  habits  of  society 
tinting  her  language  and  deportment:  no  two 
beings  can  be  more  alike  in  character,  nor  more 
distinct  as  individuals. 

The  love  of  Desdemona  for  Othello  appears  at 
first  such  a violation  of  all  probabilities  that  her 
father  at  once  imputes  it  to  magic,  “to  spells  and 
mixtures  powerful  o’er  the  blood” — 

184 


Desdemona. 


185 


She,— in  spite  of  nature, 

Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything,— 

To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear’d  to  look  on! 

And  the  devilish  malignity  of  Iago,  whose  coarse 
mind  cannot  conceive  an  affection  founded  purely 
in  sentiment,  derives  from  her  love  itself  a strong 
argument  against  her — 

Ay,  there’s  the  point:— As  to  be  bold  with  you,— 

Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree; 

Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends;*  etc. 

Notwithstanding  this  disparity  of  age,  character, 
country,  complexion,  we  who,  are  admitted  into 
the  secret,  see  her  love  rise  naturally  and  neces- 
sarily out  of  the  leading  propensities  of  her 
nature. 

At  the  period  of  the  story  a spirit  of  wild  adven- 
ture had  seized  all  Europe.  The  discovery  of 
both  Indies  was  yet  recent;  over  the  shores  of  the 
western  hemisphere  still  fable  and  mystery  hung, 
with  all  their  dim  enchantments,  visionary  terrors, 
and  golden  promises!  Perilous  expeditions  and 
distant  voyages  were  every  day  undertaken  from 
hope  of  plunder,  or  mere  love  of  enterprise;  and 
from  these  the  adventurers  returned  with  tales  of 
“Antres  vast,  and  desarts  wild — of  cannibals  that 
did  each  other  eat — of  Anthropophagi,  and  men 
whose  heads  did  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.” 
With  just  such  stories  did  Raleigh  and  Clifford, 
and  their  followers  return  from  the  New  World: 
and  thus  by  their  splendid  or  fearful  exaggera- 
tions, which  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  those 

• Act  III,  scene  3. 


186  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

times  could  not  refute,  was  the  passion  for  the 
romantic  and  marvelous  nourished  at  home,  par- 
ticularly among  the  women.  A cavalier  of  those 
days  had  no  nearer,  no  surer  way  to  his  mistress’ 
heart  than  by  entertaining  her  with  these  won- 
drous narratives.  What  was  a general  feature  of 
his  time  Shakspeare  seized  and  adapted  to  his  pur- 
pose with  the  most  exquisite  felicity  of  effect. 
Desdemona,  leaving  her  household  cares  in  haste 
to  hang  breathless  on  Othello’s  tales,  was  doubt- 
less a picture  from  the  life;  and  her  inexperience 
and  her  quick  imagination  lend  it  an  added  pro- 
priety: then  her  compassionate  disposition  is  in- 
terested by  all  the  disastrous  chances,  hair-breadth 
’scapes,  and  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 
of  which  he  has  to  tell;  and  her  exceeding  gentle- 
ness and  timidity,  and  her  domestic  turn  of  mind, 
render  her  more  easily  captivated  by  the  military 
renown,  the  valor,  and  lofty  bearing  of  the  noble 
Moor — 

And  to  his  honors  and  his  valiant  parts 

Does  she  her  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 


The  confession  and  the  excuse  for  her  love  is 
well  placed  in  the  mouth  of  Desdemona,  while 
the  history  of  the  rise  of  that  love,  and  of  his 
course  of  wooing,  is,  with  the  most  graceful  pro- 
priety, as  far  as  she  is  concerned,  spoken  by 
Othello,  and  in  her  absence.  The  last  two  lines 
summing  up  the  wholes — 


She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I had  passed, 
And  I loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them— 


Desdemona.  187 

comprise  whole  volumes  of  sentiment  and  meta- 
physics. 

Desdemona  displays  at  times  a transient  energy, 
arising  from  the  power  of  affection,  but  gentleness 
gives  the  prevailing  tone  to  the  character — gentle- 
ness in  its  excess- — gentleness  verging  on  passive- 
ness— gentleness,  which  not  only  cannot  resent — 
but  cannot  resist — 

Othello.  Then  of  so  gentle  a condition! 

Iago.  Ay!  too  gentle. 

Othello.  Nay,  that’s  certain. 

Here  the  exceeding  softness  of  Desdemona’s 
temper  is  turned  against  her  by  Iago,  so  that  it 
suddenly  strikes  Othello  in  a new  point  of  view, 
as  the  inability  to  resist  temptation;  but  to  us  who 
perceive  the  character  as  a whole,  this  extreme 
gentleness  of  nature  is  yet  delineated  with  such 
exceeding  refinement,  that  the  effect  never 
approaches  to  feebleness.  It  is  true  that  once 
her  extreme  timidity  leads  her  in  a moment  of 
confusion  and  terror  to  prevaricate  about  the  fatal 
handkerchief.  This  handkerchief,  in  the  original 
story  of  Cinthio,  is  merely  one  of  those  embroid- 
ered handkerchiefs  which  were  as  fashionable 
in  Shakspeare’s  time  as  in  our  own;  but  the  minute 
description  of  it  as  “lavorato  alia  morisco  sot- 
tilissimamente,”*  suggested  to  the  poetical  fancy 
of  Shakspeare  one  of  the  most  exquisite  and 
characteristic  passages  in  the  whole  play.  Othello 
makes  poor  Desdemona  believe  that  the  handker- 
chief was  a talisman — 

* Which,  being  interpreted  into  modern  English,  means, 
I believe,  nothing  more  than  that  the  pattern  was  what  we 
now  call  arabesque . 


188  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

There’s  a magic  In  the  web  of  It: 

A sybil,  that  had  number’d  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course  two  hundred  compasses, 

In  her  prophetic  fury  sew’d  the  work; 

The  worms  were  hallow’d  that  did  breed  the  silk, 

And  it  was  dyed  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Convers’d  of  maidens’  hearts. 

Desdemona.  Indeed!  is  ’t  true? 

Othello.  Most  veritable,  therefore  look  to  ’t  well. 

Desdemona.  Then  would  to  heaven  that  I had  never 
seen  it! 

Othello.  Ha!  wherefore! 

Desdemona.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startlingly  and  rash? 

Othello.  Is  ’t  lost?— is  ’t  gone?  Speak,  is  ’t  out  of 
the  way? 

Desdemona.  Heaven  bless  us! 

Othello.  Say  you? 

Desdemona.  It  is  not  lost.  But  what  an  if  it  were? 

Othello.  Ha! 

Desdemona.  I say,  it  is  not  lost. 

Othello.  Fetch  ’t,  let  me  see  ’t. 

Desdemona.  Why,  so  I can,  sir;  but  I will  not  now,  etc. 

Desdemona,  whose  soft  credulity,  whose  turn 
for  the  marvelous,  whose  susceptible  imagination 
had  first  directed  her  thoughts  and  affections  to 
Othello,  is  precisely  the  woman  to  be  frightened 
out  of  her  senses  by  such  a tale  as  this,  and  be- 
trayed by  her  fears  into  a monentary  tergiversa- 
tion. It  is  most  natural  in  such  a being,  and 
shows  us  that  even  in  the  sweetest  natures  there 
can  be  no  completeness  and  consistency  without 
moral  energy.* 

* There  is  an  incident  In  the  original  tale,  “II  Moro  dl 
Venezia,”  which  could  not  well  be  transferred  to  the  drama, 
but  which  is  very  effective,  and  adds,  I think,  to  the  cir- 
cumstantial horrors  of  the  story.  Desdemona  does  not  acci- 
dentally drop  the  handkerchief;  it  is  stolen  from  her  by 
Iago’s  little  child,  an  infant  of  three  years  old,  whom  he 
trains  or  bribes  to  the  theft.  The  love  of  Desdemona  for 
this  child,  her  little  playfellow— the  pretty  description  of 
her  taking  it  in  her  arms  and  caressing  it,  while  it  profits 
by  its  situation  to  steal  the  handkerchief  from  her  bosom, 
are  well  imagined,  and  beautifully  told:  and  the  circum- 
stance of  Iago  employing  his  own  innocent  child  as  the  in- 
strument of  his  infernal  villany  adds  a deeper  and.  in  truth, 
an  unnecessary  touch  of  the  fiend  to  his  fiendish  character. 


Desdemona. 


189 


With  the  most  perfect  artlessness,  she  has  some- 
thing of  the  instinctive,  unconscious  address  of 
her  sex;  as  when  she-  appeals  to  her  father — 


So  much  duty  as  my  mother  show’d 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I challenge,  that  I may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 


And  when  she  is  pleading  for  Cassio — 

What!  Michael  Cassio! 

That  came  a wooing  with  you;  and  so  many  a time, 
When  I have  spoke  of  you  disparagingly, 

Hath  ta’en  your  part? 

In  persons  who  unite  great  sensibility  and  lively 
fancy,  I have  often  observed  this  particular  species 
of  address,  which  is  always  unconscious  of  itself, 
and  consists  in  the  power  of  placing  ourselves  in 
the  position  of  another,  and  imagining,  rather 
than  perceiving,  what  is  in  their  hearts.  We 
women  have  this  address  (if  so  it  can  be  called) 
naturally,  but  I have  seldom  met  with  it  in  men. 
It  is  not  inconsistent  with  extreme  simplicity  of 
character,  and  quite  distinct  from  that  kind  of 
art  which  is  the  result  of  natural  acuteness  and 
habits  of  observation — quick  to  perceive  the 
foibles  of  others,  and  as  quick  to  turn  them  to  its 
own  purposes;  which  is  always  conscious  of  itself, 
and,  if  united  with  strong  intellect,  seldom  per- 
ceptible to  others.  In  the  mention  of  her  mother, 
and  the  appeal  to  Othello’s  self-love,  Desdemona, 
has  no  design  formed  on  conclusions  previously 
drawn;  but  her  intuitive  quickness  of  feeling, 
added  to  her  imagination,  lead  her  more  safely  to 


190  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

the  same  results,  and  the  distinction  is  as  truly  as 
it  is  delicately  drawn. 

When  Othello  first  outrages  her  in  a manner 
which  appears  inexplicable,  she  seeks  and  finds 
excuses  for  him.  She  is  so  innocent,  that  not  only 
she  cannot  believe  herself  suspected,  but  she  can- 
not conceive  the  existence  of  guilt  in  others — 

Something,  sure,  of  state,— 

Either  from  Venice,  or  some  unhatch’d  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him,— 

Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit. 

’Tis  even  so— 

Nay,  we  must  think,  men  are  not  gods, 

Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal. 

And  when  the  direct  accusation  of  crime  is  flung 
on  her  in  the  vilest  terms,  it  does  not  anger  but 
stun  her,  as  if  it  transfixed  her  whole  being;  she 
attempts  no  reply,  no  defense;  and  reproach  or 
resistance  never  enters  her  thought — 

Good  friend,  go  to  him;— for,  by  this  light  of  heaven, 

I know  not  how  I lost  him.  Here  I kneel: 

If  e’er  my  will  did  trespass  ’gainst  his  love, 

Either  in  discourse  of  thought,  or  actual  deed; 

Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 

Delighted  them  in  any  other  form; 

Or  that  I do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 

And  ever  will,— though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggardly  divorcement,— love  him  dearly, 

Comfort  forswear  me!  Unkindness  may  do  much, 

And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 

But  never  taint  my  love. 

And  there  is  one  stroke  of  consummate  delicacy, 
surprising  when  we  remember  the  latitude  of  ex- 
pression prevailing  in  Shakspeare’s  time,  and 


Desdemona. 


191 


which  he  allowed  to  his  other  women  generally: 
she  says,  on  recovering  from  her  stupefaction — 

Am  I tha£  name,  Iago? 

Iago.  What  name,  fair  lady? 

Desdemona.  Such  as,  she  says,  my  lord  did  say  I was? 

So  completely  did  Shakspeare  enter  into  the 
angelic  refinement  of  the  character. 

Endured  with  that  temper  which  is  the  origin 
of  superstition  in  love  as  in  religion, — which,  in 
fact,  makes  love  itself  a religion, — she  not  only 
does  not  utter  an  upbraiding,  but  nothing  that 
Othello  does  or  says,  no  outrage,  no  injustice,  can 
tear  away  the  charm  with  which  her  imagination 
had  invested  him,  or  impair  her  faith  in  his 
honor.  “I  would  you  had  never  seen  him!”  ex- 
claims Emilia — 

Desdemona.  So  would  not  I!— my  love  doth  so  approve  him, 
That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks,  and  frowns, 

Have  grace  and  favor  in  them. 

There  is  another  peculiarity,  which,  in  reading 
the  play  of  “Othello,”  we  rather  feel  than  per- 
ceive: through  the  whole  of  the  dialogue  appro- 
priated to  Desdemona,  there  is  not  one  general 
observation.  Words  are  with  her  the  vehicle  of 
sentiment,  and  never  of  reflection;  so  that  I can- 
not find  throughout  a sentence  of  general  applica- 
tion. The  same  remark  applies  to  Miranda:  and 
to  no  other  female  character  of  any  importance 
or  interest;  not  even  to  Ophelia. 

The  rest  of  what  I wished  to  say  of  Desdemona 
has  been  anticipated  by  an  anonymous  critic,  and 
so  beautifully,  so  justly,  so  eloquently  expressed 


192  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

that  I with  pleasure  erase  my  own  page  to  make 
room  for  his. 

“Othello,”  observes  this  writer,  “is  no  love  story; 
all  that  is  below  tragedy  in  the  passion  of  love  is 
taken  away  at  once,  by  the  awful  character  of 
Othello;  for  such  he  seems  to  us  to  be  designed 
to  be.  He  appears  never  as  a lover,  but  at  once  as 
a husband;  and  the  relation  of  his  love  made 
dignified,  as  it  is  a husband’s  justification  of  his 
marriage,  is  also  dignified,  as  it  is  a soldier’s  rela- 
tion of  his  stern  and  perilous  life.  His  love  itself, 
as  long  as  it  is  happy,  is  perfectly  calm  and  serene 
— the  protecting  tenderness  of  a husband.  It  is 
not  till  it  is  disordered  that  it  appears  as  a pas- 
sion: then  is  shown  a power  in  contention  with 
itself — a mighty  being  struck  with  death,  and 
bringing  up  from  all  the  depths  of  life  convul- 
sions and  agonies.  It  is  no  exhibition  of  the  power 
of  the  passion  of  love,  but  of  the  passion  of  life, 
vitally  wounded,  and  self-overmastering.  If  Des- 
demona  had  been  really  guilty,  the  greatness 
would  have  been  destroyed,  because  his  love  would 
have  been  unworthy,  false.  But  she  is  good,  and 
his  love  is  most  perfect,  just  and  good.  That  a 
man  should  place  his  perfect  love  on  a wretched 
thing  is  miserably  debasing,  and  shocking  to 
thought;  but  that  loving  perfectly  and  well,  he 
should  by  hellish  human  circumvention  be 
brought  to  distrust  and  dread,  and  abjure  his  own 
perfect  love,  is  most  mournful  indeed — it  is  the 
infirmity  of  our  good  nature  wrestling  in  vain 
with  the  strong  powers  of  evil.  Moreover,  he 
would,  had  Desdemona  been  false,  have  been  the 
mere  victim  of  fate;  whereas  he  is  now  in  a mam 


DESDEMONA,  her  father,  and  otheeeo. 


' 


Desdemona. 


193 


ner  his  own  victim.  His  happy  love  was  heroic 
tenderness;  his  injured  love  is  terrible  passion;  and 
disordered  power,  engendered  within  itself  to  its 
own  destruction,  is  the  height  of  all  tragedy. 

“The  character  of  Othello  is  perhaps  the  most 
greatly  drawn,  the  most  heroic,  of  any  of  Shak- 
speare’s  actors;  but  it  is  perhaps,  that  one  also  of 
which  his  reader  last  acquires  the  intelligence. 
The  intellectual  and  warlike  energy  of  his  mind; 
his  tenderness  of  affection;  his  loftiness  of  spirit; 
his  frank,  generous  magnanimity — impetuosity 
like  a thunderbolt — and  that  dark,  fierce  flood  of 
boiling  passion,  polluting  even  his  imagination, 
compose  a character  entirely  original,  most  diffi- 
cult to  delineate,  but  perfectly  delineated.” 

Emilia  in  this  play  is  a perfect  portrait  from 
common  life,  a masterpiece  in  the  Flemish  style: 
and  though  not  necessary  as  a contrast,  it  cannot 
be  but  that  the  thorough  vulgarity,  the  loose  prin- 
ciples, of  his  plebeian  woman,  united  to  a high 
degree  of  spirit,  energetic  feeling,  strong  sense, 
and  low  cunning,  serve  to  place  in  brighter  relief 
the  exquisite  refinement,  the  moral  grace,  the  un- 
blemished truth,  and  the  soft  submission  of  Des- 
demona, 

On  the  other  perfections  of  this  tragedy,  con- 
sidered as  a production  of  genius — on  the  wonder- 
ful characters  of  Othello  and  Iago — on  the  skill 
with  which  the  plot  is  conducted,  and  its  simplic- 
ity which  a word  unravels*  and  on  the  overpower- 

* Consequences  are  so  linked  together  that  the  exclama- 
tion of  Emilia. 

0 thou  dull  Moor!— That  handkerchief  thou  speakest  of 

1 found  by  fortune,  and  did  give  my  husband!— 

is  sufficient  to  reveal  to  Othello  the  whole  history  of  his 
ruin. 


194  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

ing  horror  of  the  catastrophe1 — eloquence  and  ana- 
lytical criticism  have  been  exhausted;  I will  only 
add,  that  the  source  of  the  pathos  throughout — oi: 
that  pathos  which  at  once  softens  and  deepens  the 
tragic  effect — lies  in  the  character  of  Desdemona. 
No  woman  differently  constituted  could  have 
excited  the  same  intense  and  painful  compassion 
without  losing  something  of  that  exalted  charm 
which  invests  her  from  beginning  to  end,  which 
we  are  apt  to  impute  to  the  interest  of  the  situa- 
tion and  to  the  poetical  coloring,  but  which  lies, 
in  fact,  in  the  very  essence  of  the  character.  Des- 
demona, with  all  her  timid  flexibility  and  soft 
acquiescence,  is  not  weak;  for  the  negative  alone 
is  weak;  and  the  mere  presence  of  goodness  and 
affection  implies  in  itself  a species  of  power;  power 
without  consciousness,  power  without  effort,  power 
with  repose1 — that  soul  of  grace! 

I know  a Desdemona  in  real  life,  one  in  whom 
the  absence  of  intellectual  power  is  never  felt  as  a 
deficiency,  nor  the  absence  of  energy  of  will  as 
impairing  the  dignity,  nor  the  most  imperturbable 
serenity,  as  a want  of  feeling;  one  in  whom 
thoughts  appear  mere  instincts,  the  sentiment  of 
rectitude  supplies  the  principle,  and  virtue  itself 
seems  rather  a necessary  state  of  being  than  an 
imposed  law.  No  shade  of  sin  or  vanity  has  yet 
stolen  over  that  bright  innocence.  No  discord 
within  has  marred  the  loveliness  without — no 
strife  of  the  factitious  world  without  has  disturbed 
the  harmony  within.  The  comprehension  of  evil 
appears  for  ever  shut  out,  as  if  goodness  had  con- 
verted all  things  to  itself;  and  all  to  the  pure  in 
heart  must  necessarily  be  pure.  The  impression 


Desdemona. 


195 


produced  is  exactly  that  of  the  character  of  Des- 
demona; genius  is  a rare  thing,  but  abstract  good- 
ness is  rarer.  In  Desdemona  we  cannot  but  feel 
that  the  slightest  manifestation  of  intellectual 
power  or  active  will  would  have  injured  the 
dramatic  effect.  She  is  a victim  consecrated  from 
the  first — “an  offering  without  blemish,”  alone 
worthy  of  the  grand  final  sacrifice;  all  harmony, 
all  grace,  all  purity,  all  tenderness,  all  truth!  But, 
alas!  to  see  her  fluttering  like  a cherub,  in  the 
talons  of  a fiend! — to  see  her — 0 poor  Desdemona! 


G 


X' 


IMOGEN. 


WE  now  come  to  Imogen.  Others  of  Shak- 
speare’s  characters  are,  as  dramatic  and 
poetical  conceptions,  more  striking,  more 
brilliant,  more  powerful;  but  of  all  his  women, 
considered  as  individuals  rather  than  as  heroines, 
Imogen  is  the  most  perfect.  Portia  and  Juliet 
are  pictured  to  the  fancy  with  more  force  of  con- 
trast, more  depth  of  light  and  shade;  Yiola  and 
Miranda,  with  more  aerial  delicacy  of  outline;  but 
there  is  no  female  portrait  that  can  be  compared 
to  Imogen  as  a woman — none  in  which  so  great 
a variety  of  tints  are  mingled  together  into  such 
perfect  harmony.  In  her,  we  have  all  the  fervor 
of  youthful  tenderness,  all  the  romance  of  youth- 
ful fancy,  all  the  enchantment  of  ideal  grace — the 
bloom  of  beauty,  the  brightness  of  intellect,  and 
the  dignity  of  rank,  taking  a peculiar  hue  from 
the  conjugal  character  which  is  shed  over  all,  like 
a consecration  and  a holy  charm.  In  “Othello” 
and  the  “Winter  Tale”  the  interest  excited  for 
Desdemona  and  Hermione  is  divided  with  others; 
but  in  “Cymbeline”  Imogen  is  the  angel  of  light, 
whose  lovely  presence  pervades  and  animates  the 
whole  piece.  The  character  altogether  may  be 
pronounced  finer,  more  complex  in  its  elements, 
and  more  fully  developed  in  all  its  parts,  than 
those  of  Hermione  and  Desdemona;  but  the  posi- 
tion in  which  she  is  placed  is  not,  1 think,  so  fine 
• — at  least,  not  so  effective — as  a tragic  situation. 
Shakspeare  has  borrowed  the  chief  circum- 

196 


Imogen.  197 

stances  of  Imogen’s  story  from  one  of  Boccaccio’s 
tales.* 

A company  of  Italian  merchants  who  are  assem- 
bled in  a tavern  at  Paris  are  represented  as  con- 
versing on  the  subject  of  their  wives:  all  of  them 
express  themselves  with  levity,  or  skepticism,  or 
scorn,  on  the  virtue  of  women,  except  a young 
Genoese  merchant,  named  Bernabo,  who  main- 
tains that,  by  the  especial  favor  of  Heaven,  he 
possesses  a wife  no  less  chaste  than  beautiful. 
Heated  by  the  wine,  and  excited  by  the  arguments 
and  the  coarse  raillery  of  another  young  merchant* 
Ambrogiolo,  Bernabo  proceeds  to  enumerate  the 
various  perfections  and  accomplishments  of  his 
Zinevra.  He  praises  her  loveliness,  her  submission* 
and  her  discretion — her  skill  in  embroidery,  her 
graceful  service,  in  which  the  best-trained  page  of 
the  court  could  not  exceed  her;  and  he  adds,  as 
rarer  accomplishments,  that  she  could  mount  a 
horse,  fly  a hawk,  write,  and  read,  and  cast  up 
accounts  as  well  as  any  merchant  of  them  all.  His 
enthusiasm  only  excites  the  laughter  and  mockery 
of  his  companions,  particularly  of  Ambrogiolo, 
who,  by  the  most  artful  mixture  of  contradiction 
and  argument,  rouses  the  anger  of  Bernabo,  and 
he  at  length  exclaims  that  he  would  willingly 
stake  his  life,  his  head,  on  the  virtue  of  his  wife. 
This  leads  to  the  wager  which  forms  so  important 
an  incident  in  the  drama.  Ambrogiolo  bets  one 
thousand  florins  of  gold  against  five  thousand,  that 
Zinevra,  dike  the  rest  of  her  sex,  is  accessible  to 
temptation — that  in  less  than  three  months  he 
will  undermine  her  virtue,  and  bring  her  husband 

* Decamerone.  Novella,  9mo. ; Giornata,  2do. 


198  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

the  most  undeniable  proofs  of  her  falsehood.  He 
sets  off  for  Genoa,  in  order  to  accomplish  his  pur- 
pose; but  on  his  arrival,  all  that  he  learns,  and  all 
that  he  beholds  with  his  own  eyes,  of  the  discreet 
and  noble  character  of  the  lady,  make  him  de- 
spair of  success  by  fair  means;  he  therefore  has 
recourse  to  the  basest  treachery.  By  bribing  an 
old  woman  in  the  service  of  Zinevra,  he  is  con- 
veyed to  her  sleeping  apartment  concealed  in  a 
trunk,  from  which  he  issues  in  the  dead  of  the 
night;  he  takes  note  of  the  furniture  of  the  cham- 
ber, makes  himself  master  of  her  purse,  her  morn- 
ing robe,  or  cymar,  and  her  girdle,  and  of  a certain 
mark  on  her  person.  He  repeats  these  observa- 
tions for  two  nights,  and,  furnished  with  these 
evidences  of  Zinevra’s  guilt,  he  returns  to  Paris, 
and  lays  them  before  the  wretched  husband. 
Bemabo  rejects  every  proof  of  his  wife’s  infidelity, 
except  that  which  finally  convinces  Posthumus. 
When  Ambrogiolo  mentions  the  “mole,  cinque- 
spotted,”  he  stands  like  one  who  has  received  a 
poniard  in  his  heart;  without  further  dispute  he 
pays  down  the  forfeit,  and  filled  with  rage  and  de- 
spair, both  at  the  loss  of  his  money  and  the  false- 
hood of  his  wife,  he  returns  towards  Genoa:  he 
retires  to  his  country  house,  and  sends  a messenger 
to  the  city  with  letters  to  Zinevra,  desiring  that 
she  would  come  and  meet  him,  but  with  secret 
orders  to  the  man  to  despatch  her  by  the  way. 
The  servant  prepares  to  execute  his  master’s  com- 
mand, but,  overcome  by  her  entreaties  for  mercy, 
and  his  own  remorse,  he  spares  her  life,  on  condi- 
tion that  she  will  fly.  from  the  country  for  ever. 
He  then  disguises  her  in  his  own  cloak  and  cap, 


Imogen.  199 

and  brings  back  to  her  husband  the  assurance  that 
she  is  killed,  and  that  her  body  has  been  devoured 
by  the  wolves.  In  the  disguise  of  a mariner, 
Zinevra  then  embarks  on  board  a vessel  bound  to 
the  Levant,  and  on  arriving  at  Alexandria  she  is 
taken  into  the  service  of  the  Sultan  of  Egypt, 
under  the  name  of  Sicurano;  she  gains  the  con- 
fidence of  her  master,  who,  not  suspecting  her  sex, 
sends  her  as  captain  of  the  guard  which  was 
appointed  for  the  protection  of  the  merchants  at 
the  fair  of  Acre.  Here  she  accidentally  meets 
Ambrogiolo,  and  sees  in  his  possession  the  purse 
and  girdle,  which  she  immediately  recognizes  as 
her  own.  In  reply  to  her  inquiries,  he  relates  with 
fiendish  exultation  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
obtained  possession  of  them,  and  she  persuades 
him  to  go  back  with  her  to  Alexandria,  She  then 
sends  a messenger  to  Genoa  in  the  name  of  the 
Sultan,  and  induces  her  husband  to  come  and  set- 
tle in  Alexandria.  At  a proper  opportunity,  she 
summons  both  to  the  presence  of  the  Sultan, 
obliges  Ambrogiolo  to  make  a full  confession  of 
his  treachery,  and  wrings  from  her  husband  the 
avowal  of  his  supposed  murder  of  herself:  then, 
falling  at  the  feet  of  the  Sultan,  discovers  her  real 
name  and  sex,  to  the  great  amazement  of  'all. 
Bernabo  is  pardoned  at  the  prayer  of  his  wife,  and 
Ambrogiolo  is  condemned  to  be  fastened  to  a 
stake,  smeared  with  honey,  and  left  to  be  devoured 
by  the  flies  and  locusts.  This  horrible  sentence 
is  executed;  while  Zinevra,  enriched  by  the  pres- 
ents of  the  Sultan,  and  the  forfeit  wealth  of 
Ambrogiolo,  returns  with  her  husband  to  Genoa, 
where  she  lives  in  great  honor  and  happiness,  and 


200  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

maintains  her  reputation  for  virtue  to  the  end  of 
her  life. 

These  are  the  materials  from  which  Shakspeare 
has  drawn  the  dramatic  situation  of  Imogen.  He 
has  also  endowed  her  with  several  of  the  quali- 
ties which  are  attributed  to  Zinevra;  but  for  the 
essential  truth  and  beauty  of  the  individual 
character,  for  the  sweet  coloring  of  pathos  and 
sentiment  and  poetry  interfused  through  the 
whole,  he  is  indebted  only  to  nature  and  himself. 

It  would  be  a waste  of  words  to  refute  certain 
critics  who  have  accused  Shakspeare  of  a want 
of  judgment  in  the  adaptation  of  the  story,  of 
having  transferred  the  manners  of  a set  of  intoxi- 
cated merchants  and  a merchant’s  wife  to  heroes 
and  princesses,  and  of  having  entirely  destroyed 
the  interest  of  the  catastrophe.*  The  truth  is, 
that  Shakspeare  has  wrought  out  the  materials 
before  him  with  the  most  luxuriant  fancy  and  the 
most  wonderful  skill.  As  for  the  various  ana- 
chronisms, and  the  confusion  of  names,  dates, 
and  manners  over  which  Dr.  Johnson  exults  in 
no  measured  terms,  the  confusion  is  nowhere  but 
in  his  own  heavy  obtuseness  of  sentiment  and  per- 
ception, and  his  want  of  poetical  faith.  Look  into 
the  old  Italian  poets,  whom  we  read  continually 
with  still  increasing  pleasure.  Does  any  one  think 
of  sitting  down  to  disprove  the  existence  of  Ario- 
dante,  King  of  Scotland,  or  to  prove  that  the 
mention  of  Proteus  and  Pluto,  baptism  and  the 
Virgin  Mary,  in  a breath,  amounts  to  an  ana- 
chronism? Shakspeare,  by  throwing  his  story  far 
back  into  a remote  and  uncertain  age,  has  blended, 

♦ See  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Dunlop’s  “History  of  Fiction.” 


Imogen.  201 

by  his  “own  omnipotent  will,”  the  marvelous,  the 
heroic,  the  ideal,  and  the  classical — the  extreme 
of  refinement  and  the  extreme  of  simplicity — into 
one  of  the  loveliest  fictions  of  romantic  poetry; 
and,  to  use  Schlegel’s  expression,  “has  made  the 
social  manners  of  the  latest  times  harmonize  with 
heroic  deeds,  and  even  with  the  appearances  of 
the  gods 

But  admirable  as  is  the  conduct  of  the  whole 
play,  rich  in  variety  of  character  and  in  pic- 
turesque incident,  its  chief  beauty  and  interest  is 
derived  from  Imogen. 

When  Ferdinand  tells  Miranda  that  she  was 
“created  of  every  creature’s  best,”  he  speaks  like 
a lover,  or  refers  only  to  her  personal  charms. 
The  same  expression  might  be  applied  critically 
to  the  character  of  Imogen;  for  as  the  portrait  of 
Miranda  is  produced  by  resolving  the  female 
character  into  its  original  elements,  so  that  of 
Imogen  unites  the  greatest  number  of  those  quali- 
ties which  we  imagine  to  constitute  excellence  in 
woman. 

Imogen,  like  Juliet,  conveys  to  our  mind  the  im- 
pression of  extreme  simplicity  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  wonderful  complexity.  To  conceive  her 
aright,  we  must  take  some  peculiar  tint  from 
many  characters,  and  so  mingle  them,  that,  like 
the  combination  of  hues  in  a sunbeam,  the  effect 
shall  be  as  one  to  the  eye.  We  must  imagine 
something  of  the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  Juliet, 
of  the  truth  and  constancy  of  Helen,  of  the 
dignified  purity  of  Isabel,  of  the  tender  sweetness 

* See  Hazlitt  and  Schlegel  on  the  catastrophe  of  “Cym- 
beline.” 


202  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

of  Viola,  of  the  self-possession  and  intellect  of 
Portia,  combined  together  so  equally  and  so  har- 
moniously that  we  can  scarcely  say  that  one  qual- 
ity predominates  over  the  other.  But  Imogen 
is  less  imaginative  than  Juliet,  less  spirited  and 
intellectual  than  Portia,  less  serious  than  Helen 
and  Isabel.  Her  dignity  is  not  so  imposing  as  that 
of  Hermione;  it  stands  more  on  the  defensive. 
Her  submission,  though  unbounded,  is  not  so  pas- 
sive as  that  of  Desdemona;  and  thus,  while  she 
resembles  each  of  these  characters  individually, 
she  stands  wholly  distinct  from  all. 

It  is  true  that  the  conjugal  tenderness  of 
Imogen  is  at  once  the  chief  subject  of  the  drama 
and  the  pervading  charm  of  her  character;  but  it 
is  not  true,  I think,  that  she  is  merely  interesting 
from  her  tenderness  and  constancy  to  her  hus- 
band. We  are  so  completely  let  into  the  essence 
of  Imogen’s  nature,  that  we  feel  as  if  we  had 
known  and  loved  her  before  she  was  married  to 
Posthumus,  and  that  her  conjugal  virtues  are  a 
charm  superadded,  like  the  color  laid  upon  a beau- 
tiful ground-work.  Neither  does  it  appear  to  me 
that  Posthumus  is  unworthy  of  Imogen,  or  only 
interesting  on  Imogen’s  account.  His  character, 
like  those  of  all  the  other  persons  of  the  drama, 
is  kept  subordinate  to  hers;  but  this  could  not  be 
otherwise,  for  she  is  the  proper  subject,  the 
heroine  of  the  poem.  Everything  is  done  to  en- 
noble Posthumus  and  justify  her  love  for  him, 
and  though  we  certainly  approve  him  more  for 
her  sake  than  for  his  own,  we  are  early  prepared 
to  view  him  with  Imogen’s  eyes,  and  not  only 
excuse,  but  sympathize  in  her  admiration  of  one — 


Imogen.  203 

Who  sat  ’mongst  men  like  a descended  god. 

****** 

Who  lived  in  court, 

Which  it  is  rare  to  do,  most  praised,  most  lov’d: 

A sample  to  the  youngest;  to  the  more  mature 

A glass  that  feated  them. 

And  with  what  beauty  and  delicacy  is  her  con- 
jugal and  matronly  character  discriminated!  Her 
love  for  her  husband  is  as  deep  as  Juliet’s  for  her 
lover,  but  without  any  of  that  headlong  vehe- 
mence, that  fluttering  amid  hope,  fear,  and  trans- 
port, that  giddy  intoxication  of  heart  and  sense, 
which  belongs  to  the  novelty  of  passion,  which  we 
feel  once,  and  but  once,  in  our  lives.  We  see  her 
love  for  Posthumus  acting  upon  her  mind  with 
the  force  of  an  habitual  feeling,  heightened  by  en- 
thusiastic passion,  and  hallowed  by  the  sense  of 
duty.  She  asserts  and  justifies  her  affection  with 
energy,  indeed,  but  with  a calm  and  wife-like 
dignity— 

Cymbeline.  Thou  took’st  a beggar,  would’st  have  made 
my  throne 
A seat  for  baseness. 

Imogen . No,  I rather  added 

A lustre  to  it. 

Cymbeline.  O thou  vile  one! 

Imogen.  Sir. 

It  is  your  fault  that  I have  lov’d  Posthumus; 

You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow;  and  he  is 
A man,  worth  any  woman;  overbuys  me, 

Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Compare  also,  as  examples  of  the  most  delicate 
discrimination  of  character  and  feeling,  the  part- 
ing scene  between  Imogen  and  Posthumus,  that 
between  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  that  between 


204 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Troilus  and  Cressida;  compare  the  confiding 
matronly  tenderness,  the  deep  but  resigned  sorrow 
of  Imogen,  with  the  despairing  agony  of  Juliet 
and  the  petulent  grief  of  Cressida. 

When  Posthumus1  is  driven  into  exile,  he  comes 
to  take  a last  farewell  of  his  wife — 

Imogen.  My  dearest  husband, 

I something  fear  my  father’s  wrath;  but  nothing 

(Always  reserv’d  my  holy  duty)  what 

His  rage  can  do  on  me.  You  must  be  gone; 

And  I shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes;  not  comforted  to  live, 

But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world, 

That  I may  see  again. 

Posthumus.  My  queen!  my  mistress! 

O lady,  weep  no  more,  lest  I give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a man!  I will  remain 
The  loyal’st  husband  that  did  e’er  plight  troth. 
****** 

Should  we  be  taking  leave 
As  long  a term  as  yet  we  have  to  live, 

The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow.— Adieu! 

Imogen.  Nay,  stay  a little; 

Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 

Such  parting  were  too  petty.  Look  here,  love, 

This  diamond  was  my  mother’s;  take  it,  heart; 

But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 

When  Imogen  is  dead! 

Imogen,  in  whose  tenderness  there  is  nothing 
jealous  or  fantastic,  does  not  seriously  apprehend 
that  her  husband  will  woo  another  wife  when  she 
is  dead.  It  is  one  of  those  fond  fancies  which 
women  are  apt  to  express  in  moments  of  feeling, 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a protestation 
to  the  contrary.  When  Posthumus  leaves  her,  she 
does  not  burst  forth  in  eloquent  lamentation;  but 


Imogen.  205 

that  silent,  stunning,  overwhelming  sorrow,  which 
renders  the  mind  insensible  to  all  things  else,  is 
represented  with  equal  force  and  simplicity — 

Imogen . There  cannot  be  a pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Cymbeline.  O disloyal  thing, 

That  should’st  repair  my  youth;  thou  heapest 
A year’s  age  on  me! 

Imogen.  I beseech  you,  sir, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath;  a touch  more  rare* 

Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cymbeline.  Past  grace?  obedience? 

Imogen.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair,— that  way; 
past  grace. 

In  the  same  circumstances,  the  impetuous  excited 
feelings  of  Juliet,  and  her  vivid  imagination,  lend 
something  far  more  wildly  agitated,  more  intensely 
poetical  and  passionate,  to  her  grief — 

Juliet . Art  thou  gone  so?  My  lord,  my  love,  my  friend! 

I must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i’  the  hour, 

For  in  a minute  there  are  many  days:— 

O!  by  this  count  I shall  be  much  in  years, 

Ere  I again  behold  my  Romeo! 

Romeo.  Farewell!  I will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

Juliet.  O!  think’st  thou  we  shall  ever  meet  again? 

Romeo.  I doubt  it  not;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Juliet.  O God!  I have  an  ill-divining  soul: 

Methinks  I see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 

As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a tomb; 

Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look’st  pale. 

We  have  no  sympathy  with  the  pouting  disap- 
pointment of  Cressida,  which  is  just  like  that  of 

* More  rare,  i.  e.,  more  exquisitely  poignant. 


206  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

a spoilt  child  which  has  lost  its  sugar-plum,  with- 
out tenderness,  passion,  or  poetry;  and,  in  short, 
perfectly  characteristic  of  that  vain,  fickle,  disso- 
lute, heartless  woman — “unstable  as  water” — 

Cressida.  And  is  it  true  that  I must  go  from  Troy? 

Troilus.  A hateful  truth. 

Cressida.  What,  and  from  Troilus  too? 

Troilus.  From  Troy  and  Troilus. 

Cressida.  Is  ’t  possible? 

Troilus.  And  suddenly. 

Cressida.  I must,  then,  to  the  Grecians? 

Troilus.  No  remedy. 

Cressida.  A woeful  Cressid  ’mongst  the  merry  Greeks! 
When  shall  we  see  again? 

Troilus.  Hear  me,  my  love:  Be  thou  but  true  of  heart— 

Cressida.  I true?  How  now?  what  wicked  deem  is  this? 

Troilus.  Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 

For  it  is  parting  from  us;— 

I speak  not,  “be  thou  true,”  as  fearing  thee; 

For  I will  throw  my  glove  to  Death  himself, 

That  there’s  no  maculation  in  thy  heart; 

But  “be  thou  true,”  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation.  Be  thou  true, 

And  I will  see  thee. 

Cressida.  O heavens!  “be  true”  again? 

O heavens!  you  love  me  not. 

Troilus.  Die  I a villain,  then! 

In  this  I do  not  call  your  faith  in  question, 

So  mainly  as  my  merit. 

....  But  be  not  tempted. 

Cressida.  Do  you  think  I will? 

In  the  eagerness  of  Imogen  to  meet  her  husband 
there  is  all  a wife’s  fondness,  mixed  up  with  the 
breathless  hurry  arising  from  a sudden  and  joyful 
surprise;  but  nothing  of  the  picturesque  elo- 
quence, the  ardent,  exuberant  Italian  imagination 
of  Juliet,  who,  to  gratify  her  impatience,  would 
have  her  heralds  thoughts — press  into  her  service 


Imogen.  207 

the  nimble-pinioned  doves  and  wind-swift  Cupids 
— change  the  course  of  nature,  and  lash  the  steeds 
of  Phoebus  to  the  west.  Imogen  only  thinks  “one 
score  of  miles,  ’twixt  sun  and  sun,”  slow  traveling 
for  a lover,  and  wishes  for  a horse  with  wings — 

O for  a horse  with  wings!  Hear’st  thou,  Pisanio? 

He  is  at  Milford  Haven:  Read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  ’tis  thither.  If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a day?  Then,  true,  Pisanio 
(Who  long’st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord— who  long’st — 

0 let  me  ’bate — but  not  like  me;  yet  long’st— 

But  in  a fainter  kind:— O not  like  me; 

For  mine’s  beyond  beyond),  say,  and  speak  thick 
(Love’s  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense),  how  far  it  is 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford.  And,  by  the  way, 

Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
T*  inherit  such  a haven.  But,  first  of  all, 

How  we  may  steal  from  hence;  and,  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence-going 
And  our  return,  to  excuse;— but  first,  how  get  hence; 
Why  should  excuse  be  born,  or  e’er  begot? 

We’ll  talk  of  that  hereafter.  Pr’ythee,  speak, 

How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
’Twixt  hour  and  hour? 

Pisanio.  One  score,  ’twixt  sun  and  sun, 

Madam,  ’s  enough  for  you;  and  too  much  too. 

Imogen.  Why,  one  that  rode  to  his  execution,  man, 
Could  never  go  so  slow. 

There  are  two  or  three  other  passages  bearing 
on  the  conjugal  tenderness  of  Imogen  which  must 
be  noticed  for  the  extreme  intensity  of  the  feeling, 
and  the  unadorned  elegance  of  the  expression — 

1 would  thou  grew’st  unto  the  shores  o’  the  haven, 

And  question’dst  every  sail;  if  he  should  write, 

And  I not  have  it,  ’twere  a paper  lost 


208 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

As  offered  mercy  is.  What  was  the  last 
That  he  spoke  to  thee? 

Pisanio.  ’Twas,  “His  queen!  his  queen!” 

Imogen.  Then  wav’d  his  handkerchief? 

Pisanio.  And  kiss’d  it,  madam. 

Imogen.  Senseless  linen!  happier  therein  than  I!— 
And  that  was  all? 

Pisanio.  No,  madam;  for  so  long 
As  he  could  make  me  with  his  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  ’s  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail’d  on, 

How  swift  his  ship. 

Imogen.  Thou  should’st  have  made  him 
As  little  as  a crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pisanio.  Madam,  so  I did. 

Imogen . I would  have  broke  my  eye-strings;  crack’d 
them,  but 

To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle; 

Nay,  followed  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a gnat  to  air;  and  then 
Have  turn’d  mine  eye,  and  wept. 

Two  little  incidents,  which  are  introduced  with 
the  most  unobtrusive  simplicity,  convey  the 
strongest  impression  of  her  tenderness  for  her 
husband,  and  with  that  perfect  unconsciousness 
on  her  part  which  adds  to  the  effect.  Thus,  when 
she  has  lost  her  bracelet — 

Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a jewel,  that  too  casually 
Hath  left  mine  arm.  It  was  thy  master’s;  ’shrew  me, 

If  I would  lose  it  for  a revenue 
Of  any  king’s  in  Europe.  I do  think 
I saw  ’t  this  morning;  confident  I am 
Last  night  ’twas  on  mine  arm —I  kiss’d  it. 

I hope  it  be  not  gone , to  tell  my  lord 
That  I kiss  aught  but  he. 


209 


Imogen. 

It  has  been  well  observed,  that  our  conscious- 
ness that  the  bracelet  is  really  gone  to  bear  false 
witness  against  her  adds  an  inexpressibly  touch- 
ing effect  to  the  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the 
sentiment. 

And  again,  when  she  opens  her  bosom  to  meet 
the  death  to  which  her  husband  has  doomed  her, 
he  finds  his  letters  preserved  next  her  heart — 

Soft,  we’ll  no  defense 

What’s  here? 

The  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus?— 

The  scene  in  which  Posthumus  stakes  his  ring 
on  the  virtue  of  his  wife,  and  gives  Iachimo  per- 
mission to  tempt  her,  is  taken  from  the  story. 
The  baseness  and  folly  of  such  conduct  have  been 
justly  censured;  but  Shakspeare  feeling  that  Pos- 
thumus needed  every  excuse,  has  managed  the 
quarreling  scene  between  him  and  Iachimo  with 
the  most  admirable  skill.  The  manner  in  which 
his  high  spirit  is  gradually  worked  up  by  the 
taunts  of  this  Italian  fiend  is  contrived  with  far 
more  probability,  and  much  less  coarseness,  than 
in  the  original  tale.  In  the  end  he  is  not  the 
challenger,  but  the  challenged;  and  could  hardly 
(except  on  a moral  principle  much  too  refined  for 
those  rude  times)  have  declined  the  wager  without 
compromising  his  own  courage,  and  his  faith  in 
the  honor  of  Imogen. 

Iachimo.  I durst  attempt  it  against  any  lady  in  the  world. 

Posthumus.  You  are  a great  deal  abused  in  too  bold  a 
persuasion;  and  I doubt  not  you  sustain  what  you’re  worthy 
of,  by  your  attempt. 

Iachimo.  What’s  that? 

Posthumus.  A repulse:  though  your  attempt , as  you  call  It, 
deserves  more;  a punishment,  too. 


210  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Philario.  Gentlemen,  enough  of  this:  It  came  in  too 
suddenly;  let  it  die  as  it  was  born,  and,  I pray  you,  be  better 
acquainted. 

Iachimo.  Would  I had  put  my  estate,  and  my  neighbor’s, 
on  the  approbation  of  what  I have  spoke! 

Posthumus.  "What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail? 

Iachimo.  Yours,  whom  in  constancy,  you  think,  stands  so 
safe. 

In  the  interview  between  Imogen  and  Iachimo, 
he  does  not  begin  his  attack  on  her  virtue  by  a 
direct  accusation  against  Posthumus;  but  by  dark 
hints  and  half-uttered  insinuations,  such  as  Iago 
uses  to  madden  Othello,  he  intimates  that  her  hus- 
band, in  his  absence  from  her,  has  betrayed  her 
love  and  truth,  and  forgotten  her  in  the  arms  of 
another.  All  that  Imogen  says  in  this  scene  is 
comprised  in  a few  lines — a brief  question,  or  a 
more  brief  remark.  The  proud  and  delicate  re- 
serve with  which  she  veils  the  anguish  she  suffers 
is  inimitably  beautiful.  The  strongest  expression 
of  reproach  he  can  draw  from  her  is  only,  “My 
lord,  I fear,  has  forgot  Britain.”  When  he  con- 
tinues in  the  same  strain,  she  exclaims  in  an 
agony,  “Let  me  hear  no  more!”  When  he  urges 
her  to  revenge,  she  asks,  with  all  the  simplicity  of 
virtue,  “How  should  I be  revenged?”  And  when 
he  explains  to  her  how  she  is  to  be  avenged,  her 
sudden  burst  of  indignation,  and  her  immediate 
perception  of  his  treachery,  and  the  motive  for  it, 
are  powerfully  fine;  it  is  not  only  the  anger  of  a 
woman  whose  delicacy  has  been  shocked,  but  the 
spirit  of  a princess  insulted  in  her  court — 


Away!— I do  condemn  mine  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee.— If  thou  wert  honorable, 
Thou  would’st  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 


Imogen.  211 

For  such  an  end  thou  seek’st;  as  base  as  strange. 

Thou  wrong’st  a gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report  as  thou  from  honor;  and 
Solicit’st  here  a lady  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  “her  readiness  to 
pardon  Iachimo’s  false  imputation,  and  his  de- 
signs against  herself,  is  a good  lesson  to  prudes, 
and  may  show  that  where  there  is  a real  attach- 
ment to  virtue,  there  is  no  need  of  an  outrageous 
antipathy  to  vice.”* 

This  is  true;  but  can  we  fail  to  perceive  that 
the  instant  and  ready  forgiveness  of  Imogen  is 
accounted  for,  and  rendered  more  graceful  and 
characteristic,  by  the  very  means  which  Iachimo 
employs  to  win  it?  He  pours  forth  the  most  en- 
thusiastic praises  of  her  husband,  professes  that  he 
merely  made  this  trial  of  her  out  of  his  exceeding 
love  for  Posthumus,  and  she  is  pacified  at  once; 
but,  with  exceeding  delicacy  of  feeling,  she  is  rep- 
resented as  maintaining  her  dignified  reserve  and 
her  brevity  of  speech  to  the  end  of  the  scene.t 

We  must  also  observe  how  beautifully  the 
character  of  Imogen  is  distinguished  from  those 
of  Desdemona  and  Hermione.  When  she  is  made 
acquainted  with  her  husband’s  cruel  suspicions, 
we  see  in  her  deportment  neither  the  meek  sub- 
mission of  the  former  nor  the  calm  resolute 
dignity  of  the  latter.  The  first  effect  produced 
on  her  by  her  husband’s  letter  is  conveyed  to  the 
fancy  by  the  exclamation  of  Pisanio,  who  is 
gazing  on  her  as  she  reads — 

* “Characters  of  Skakspeare’s  Plays.” 

f See  Act  I,  scene  7. 


212 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

What  shall  I need  to  draw  my  sword?  The  paper 
Has  cut  her  throat  already!— No,  ’tis  slander; 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword! 


And  in  her  first  exclamations  we  trace,  besides 
astonishment  and  anguish,  and  the  acute  sense  of 
the  injustice  inflicted  on  her,  a flash  of  indignant 
spirit,  which  we  do  not  find  in  Desdemona  or 
Hermione — 

\ 

False  to  his  bed!— What!  is  it  to  be  false 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him? 

To  weep  ’twixt  clock  and  clock?  If  sleep  charge  nature. 
To  break  it  with  a fearful  dream  of  him, 

And  cry  myself  awake?— That’s  false  to  his  bed, 

Is  it? 

This  is  followed  by  that  affecting  lamentation 
over  the  falsehood  and  injustice  of  her  husband, 
in  which  she  betrays  no  atom  of  jealousy  or 
wounded  self-love,  but  observes  in  the  extremity 
of  her  anguish,  that  after  his  lapse  from  truth 
“all  good  seeming  would  be  discredited,”  and  she 
then  resigns  herself  to  his  will  with  the  most  entire 
submission. 

In  the  original  story,  Zinerva  prevails  on  the 
servant  to  spare  her,  by  her  exclamations  and  en- 
treaties for  mercy.  “The  lady,  seeing  the  poniard, 
and  hearing  those  words,  exclaimed  in  terror, 
‘Alas!  have  pity  on  me  for  the  love  of  heaven!  do 
not  become  the  slayer  of  one  who  never  offended 
thee  only  to  pleasure  another!  God,  who  knows 
all  things,  knows  that  I have  never  done  that 
which  could  merit  such  a reward  from  my  hus- 
band’s hand  / ” 

How  let  us  turn  to  Shakspeare.  Imogen  says — - 


Imogen.  213 

Come,  fellow,  be  thou  honest; 

Do  thou  thy  master’s  bidding;  when  thou  seest  him, 

A little  witness  my  obedience.  Look! 

I draw  the  sword  myself;  take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart. 

Fear  not;  ’tis  empty  of  all  things,  but  grief: 

Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  was,  indeed, 

The  riches  of  it.  Do  his  bidding;  strike! 


The  devoted  attachment  of  Pisanio  to  his  royal 
mistress,  all  through  the  piece  is  one  of  those  side- 
touches  by  which  Shakspeare  knew  how  to  give 
additional  effect  to  his  characters. 

Cloten  is  odious;*  but  we  must  not  overlook 
the  peculiar  fitness  and  propriety  of  his  character 
in  connection  with  that  of  Imogen.  He  is  pre- 
cisely the  kind  of  man  who  would  be  most  intol- 
erable to  such  a woman.  He  is  a fool — so  is 
Slender,  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek;  but  the  folly 
of  Cloten  is  not  only  ridiculous,  but  hateful;  it 
arises  not  so  much  from  a want  of  understanding 
as  a total  want  of  heart;  it  is  the  perversion  of 
sentiment  rather  than  the  deficiency  of  intellect; 
he  has  occasional  gleams  of  sense,  but  never  a 
touch  of  feeling.  Imogen  describes  herself  not 
only  as  “sprighted  with  a fool,”  but  as  “frighted 

* The  character  of  Cloten  has  been  pronounced  by  some 
unnatural,  by  others  inconsistent,  and  by  others  obsolete. 
The  following  passage  occurs  in  one  of  Miss  Seward’s  let- 
ters, Vol.  Ill,  p.  246:  “It  is  curious  that  Shakspeare  should, 
in  so  singular  a character  as  Cloten,  have  given  the  exact 
prototype  of  a being  whom  I once  knew.  The  unmeaning 
frown  of  countenance,  the  shuffling  gait,  the  burst  of  voice, 
the  bustling  insignificance,  the  fever  and  ague  fits  of  valor, 
the  forward  tetchiness,  the  unprincipled  malice,  and,  what 
is  more  curious,  those  occasional  gleams  of  good  sense 
amidst  the  floating  clouds  of  folly  which  generally  darkened 
and  confused  the  man’s  brain,  and  which,  in  the  character 
of  Cloten,  we  are  apt  to  impute  to  a violation  of  unity  in 

character;  but  in  the  sometime  Captain  C I saw  that  the 

portrait  of  Cloten  was  not  out  of  nature.” 


214  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  anger’d  worse.”  No  other  fool  but  Cloten — 
a compound  of  the  booby  and  the  villain — could 
excite  in  such  a mind  as  Imogen’s  the  same  mix- 
ture of  terror,  contempt,  and  abhorrence.  The 
stupid,  obstinate  malignity  of  Cloten,  and  the 
wicked  machinations  of  the  queen — 

A father  cruel,  and  a step-dame  false, 

A foolish  suitor  to  a wedded  lady— 

justify  whatever  might  need  excuse  in  the  con- 
duct of  Imogen — as  her  concealed  marriage  and 
her  flight  from  her  father’s  court — and  serve  to 
call  out  several  of  the  most  beautiful  and  striking 
parts  of  her  character;  particularly  that  decision 
and  vivacity  of  temper,  which  in  her  harmonize 
so  beautifully  with  exceeding  delicacy,  sweetness, 
and  submission. 

In  the  scene  with  her  detested  suitor,  there  is  at 
first  a careless  majesty  of  disdain  which  is  ad- 
mirable— 


I am  much  sorry,  sir, 

You  put  me  to  forget  a lady’s  manners, 

By  being  so  verbal;*  and  learn  now,  for  all, 

That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce, 

By  th’  very  truth  of  it,  I care  not  for  you, 

And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 

(T’  accuse  myself)  I hate  you;  which  I had  rather 
You  felt,  than  make  ’t  my  boast. 

But  when  he  dares  to  provoke  her,  by  reviling 
the  absent  Posthumus,  her  indignation  heightens 
her  scorn,  and  her  scorn  sets  a keener  edge  on  her 
indignation — 

• I.  e.y  full  of  words. 


Imogen. 


215 


Cloten.  For 

The  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch, 

(One  bred  of  alms,  and  foster’d  with  cold  dishes 
With  scraps  o’  the  court):  it  is  no  contract— none. 

Imogen.  Profane  fellow! 

Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more, 

But  what  thou  art,  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  be  his  groom;  thou  wert  dignified  enough, 

Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  ’twere  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl’d 
The  under-hangman  of  his  kingdom;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr’d  so  well. 

******* 

He  never  can  meet  more  mischance  than  come 
To  be  but  nam’d  of  thee.  His  mean’st  garment, 

That  ever  hath  but  clipp’d  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect  than  all  the  hairs  about  thee, 

Were  they  all  made  such  men. 

One  thing  more  must  be  particularly  remarked, 
because  it  serves  to  individualize  the  character 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  poem.  We 
are  constantly  sensible  that  Imogen,  besides  being 
a tender  and  devoted  woman,  is  a princess  and  a 
beauty  at  the  same  time  that  she  is  ever  superior 
to  her  position  and  her  external  charms.  There 
is,  for  instance',  a certain  airy  majesty  of  deport- 
ment, a spirit  of  accustomed  command,  breaking 
out  every  now  and  then — the  dignity,  without 
the  assumption,  of  rank  and  royal  birth,  which  is 
apparent  in  the  scene  with  Cloten  and  elsewhere. 
And  we  have  not  only  a general  impression  that 
Imogen,  like  other  heroines,  is  beautiful,  but  the 
peculiar  style  and  character  of  her  beauty  is  placed 
before  us;  we  have  an  image  of  the  most  luxuriant 
loveliness  combined  with  exceeding  delicacy,  and 
even  fragility,  of  person,  of  the  most  refined  ele- 


216  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

gance  and  the  most  exquisite  modesty,  set  forth 
in  one  or  two  passages  of  description;  as  when 
Iachimo  is  contemplating  her  asleep — 

Cytherea, 

How  bravely  thou  becom’st  thy  bed!  fresh  lily! 

And  whiter  than  the  sheets. 

’Tis  her  breathing  that 

Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.  The  flame  o’  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  underpeep  her  lids, 

To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows;  white  and  azure,  lac’d 
With  blue  of  heaven’s  own  tint! 

The  preservation  of  her  feminine  character  un- 
der her  masculine  attire,  her  delicacy,  her  mod- 
esty, and  her  timidity,  are  managed  with  the  same 
perfect  consistency  and  unconscious  grace  as  in 
Viola.  And  we  must  not  forget  that  her  “neat 
cookery,”  which  is  so  prettily  eulogized  by 
Guiderius — 

He  cut  our  roots  in  characters, 

And  sauc’d  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick, 

And  he  her  dieter— 


formed  part  of  the  education  of  a princess  in  those 
remote  times. 

Few  reflections  of  a general  nature  are  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Imogen;  and  what  she  says  is  more 
remarkable  for  sense,  truth,  and  tender  feeling, 
than  for  wit,  or  wisdom,  or  power  of  imagination. 
The  following  little  touch  of  poetry  reminds  us  of 
Juliet — 

Ere  I could 

Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I had  set 
Between  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  fath 
And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 

Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 


Imogen.  217 

Her  exclamation  on  opening  her  husband’s  let- 
ter reminds  us  of  the  profound  and  thoughtful 
tenderness  of  Helen — 

O!  learn’d  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars,  as  I his  characters; 

He’d  lay  the  future  open. 


The  following  are  more  in  the  manner  of 
Isabel — 

Most  miserable 

Is  the  desire  that’s  glorious;  bless’d  be  those. 

How  mean  soe’er,  that  have  their  honest  wills. 

Which  seasons  comfort. 

Against  self-slaughter 
There  is  a prohibition  so  divine, 

That  cravens  my  weak  hand. 

Thus  may  poor  fools 

Believe  false  teachers;  though  those  that  are  betray’d 
Do  feel  the  treason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe. 

Are  we  not  brothers? 

So  man  and  man  should  be; 

But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 

Whose  dust  is  both  alike. 

Will  poor  folks  lie 

That  have  afflictions  on  them;  knowing  this; 

A punishment  or  trial?  Yes;  no  wonder, 

WThen  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true;  to  lapse  in  fulness 
Is  sorer  than  to  lie  for  need;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. 


The  sentence  which  follows,  and  which  I believe 
has  become  proverbial,  has  much  of  the  manner  of 
Portia,  both  in  the  thought  and  the  expression — 


218  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines?  Day,  night, 

Are  they  not  but  in  Britain?  I’  the  world’s  volume 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  ’t; 

In  a great  pool,  a swan’s  nest;  pr’ythee,  think 
There’s  livers  out  of  Britain. 

******* 

The  catastrophe  of  this  play  has  been  much  ad- 
mired for  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  all  the 
various  threads  of  interests  are  gathered  together 
at  last,  and  entwined  with  the  destiny  of  Imogen. 
It  may  be  added,  that  one  of  its  chief  beauties  is 
the  manner  in  which  the  character  of  Imogen  is 
not  only  preserved,  but  rises  upon  us  to  the  con- 
clusion with  added  grace:  her  instantaneous  for- 
giveness of  her  husband  before  he  even  asks  it, 
when  she  flings  herself  at  once  into  his  arms — 

Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you?— 

and  her  magnanimous  reply  to  her  father,  when 
he  tells  her  that  by  the  discovery  of  her  two 
brothers  she  has  lost  a kingdom. 

No;  I have  gain’d  two  worlds  by  it— 

clothing  a noble  sentiment  in  a noble  image — 
give  the  finishing  touches  of  excellence  to  this 
most  enchanting  portrait. 

On  the  whole,  Imogen  is  a lovely  compound  of 
goodness,  truth,  and  affection,  with  just  so  much 
of  passion,  and  intellect,  and  poetry,  as  serve  to 
lend  to  the  picture  that  power  and  glowing  rich- 
ness of  effect  which  it  would  otherwise  have 
wanted;  and  of  her  it  might  be  said,  if  we  could 
condescend  to  quote  from  any  other  poet  with 
Shakspeare  open  before  us,  that  “her  person  was  a 
paradise,  and  her  soul  the  cherub  to  guard  it.”* 

* Dryden. 


CORDELIA. 


THERE  is  in  the  beauty  of  Cordelia’s  character 
an  effect  too  sacred  for  words,  and  almost 
too  deep  for  tears;  within  her  heart  is  a 
fathomless  well  of  purest  affection,  but  its  waters 
sleep  in  silence  and  obscurity, — never  failing  in 
their  depth  and  never  overflowing  in  their  fulness. 
Everything  in  her  seems  to  lie  beyond  our  view, 
and  affects  us  in  a manner  which  we  feel  rather 
than  perceive.  The  character  appears  to  have  no 
surface,  no  salient  points  upon  which  the  fancy 
can  readily  seize:  there  is  little  external  develop- 
ment of  intellect,  less  of  passion,  and  still  less  of 
imagination.  It  is  completely  made  out  in  the 
course  of  a few  scenes,  and  we  are  surprised  to  find 
that  in  those  few  scenes  there  is  matter  for  a life 
of  reflection,  and  materials  enough  for  twenty 
heroines.  If  “Lear”  be  the  grandest  of  Shak- 
speare’s  tragedies,  Cordelia  in  herself,  as  a human 
being  governed  by  the  purest  and  holiest  impulses 
and  motives,  the  most  refined  from  all  dross  of 
selfishness  and  passion,  approaches  near  to  per- 
fection; and,  in  her  adaptation  as  a dramatic  per- 
sonage to  a determinate  plan  of  action,  may  be  pro- 
nounced altogether  perfect.  The  character,  to 
speak  of  it  critically  as  a poetical  conception,  is 
not,  however,  to  be  comprehended  at  once,  or 
easily;  and  in  the  same  manner  Cordelia,  as  a 
woman,  is  one  whom  we  must  have  loved  before 
we  could  have  known  her,  and  known  her  long 
before  we  could  have  known  her  truly. 

219 


220  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Most  people,  I believe,  have  heard  the  story  of 
the  young  German  artist  Muller,  who,  while  em- 
ployed in  copying  and  engraving  Raffaelle’s 
Madonna  del  Sisto,  was  so  penetrated  by  its  celes- 
tial beauty,  so  distrusted  his  own  power  to  do 
justice  to  it,  that  between  admiration  and  despair 
he  fell  into  a sadness;  thence,  through  the  usual 
gradations,  into  a melancholy;  thence  into  mad- 
ness; and  died  just  as  he  had  put  the  finishing 
stroke  to  his  own  matchless  work,  which  had  occu- 
pied him  for  eight  years.  With  some  slight  tinge 
of  this  concentrated  kind  of  enthusiasm  I have 
learned  to  contemplate  the  character  of  Cordelia; 
I have  looked  into  it  till  the  revelation  of  its  hid- 
den beauty,  and  an  intense  feeling  of  the  wonder- 
ful genius  which  created  it,  have  filled  me  at  once 
with  delight  and  despair. 

Like  poor  Muller,  but  with  more  reason,  I do 
despair  of  ever  conveying,  through  a different  and 
inferior  medium,  the  impression  made  on  my  own 
mind  to  the  mind  of  another. 

Schlegel,  the  most  eloquent  of  critics,  concludes 
his  remarks  on  “King  Lear”  with  these  words: 
“Of  the  heavenly  beauty  of  soul  of  Cordelia  I will 
not  venture  to  speak.”  How  if  I attempt  what 
Schlegel  and  others  have  left  undone,  it  is  because 
I feel  that  this  general  acknowledgment  of  her 
excellence  can  neither  satisfy  those  who  have 
studied  the  character,  nor  convey  a just  concep- 
tion of  it  to  the  mere  reader.  Amid  the  awful, 
the  overpowering  interest  of  the  story,  amid  the 
terrible  convulsions  of  passion  and  suffering,  and 
pictures  of  moral  and  physical  wretchedness  which 
harrow  up  the  soul,  the  tender  influence  of  Cor- 


Cordelia. 


221 


delia,  like  that  of  a celestial  visitant,  is  felt  and 
acknowledged  without  being  quite  understood. 
Like  a soft  star  that  shines  for  a moment  from  be- 
hind a stormy  cloud,  and  the  next  is  swallowed  up 
in  tempest  and  darkness,  the  impression  it  leaves 
is  beautiful  and  deep,  but  vague.  Speak  of  Cor- 
delia to  a critic,  or  to  a general  reader,  all  agree 
in  the  beauty  of  the  portrait,  for  all  must  feel  it; 
but  when  we  come  to  details,  I have  heard  more 
various  and  opposite  opinions  relative  to  her  than 
any  other  of  Shakspeare’s  characters — a proof  of 
what  I have  advanced  in  the  first  instance,  that, 
from  the  simplicity  with  which  the  character  is 
dramatically  treated,  and  the  small  space  it  occu- 
pies, few  are  aware  of  its  internal  power  or  its 
wonderful  depth  of  purpose. 

It  appears  to  me  that  the  whole  character  rests 
upon  the  two  sublimest  principles  of  human  action 
— the  love  of  truth  and  the  sense  of  duty:  but 
these,  when  they  stand  alone  (as  in  the  “Anti- 
gone”), are  apt  to  strike  us  as  severe  and  cold. 
Shakspeare  has,  therefore,  wreathed  them  round 
with  the  dearest  attributes  of  our  feminine  nature, 
the  power  of  feeling  and  inspiring  affection.  The 
first  part  of  the  play  shows  us  how  Cordelia  is 
loved,  the  second  part  how  she  can  love.  To  her 
father  she  is  the  object  of  a secret  preference;  his 
agony  at  her  supposed  unkindness  draws  from  him 
the  confession  that  he  had  loved  her  most,  and 
“thought  to  set  his  rest  on  her  kind  nursery.” 
Till  then  she  had  been  “his  best  object,  the  argu- 
ment of  his  praise,  balm  of  his  age,  most  best,  most 
dearest!”  The  faithful  and  worthy  Kent  is  ready 
to  brave  death  and  exile  in  her  defense;  and  after- 


222 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

wards  a further  impression  of  her  benign  sweet- 
ness is  conveyed  in  a simple  and  beautiful  manner, 
when  we  are  told  that  “since*  the  Lady  Cordelia 
went  to  France,  her  father’s  poor  fool  had  much 
pined  away/’  We  have  her  sensibility  “when 
patience  and  sorrow  strove  which  should  express 
her  goodliest;”  and  all  her  filial  tenderness  when 
she  commits  her  poor  father  to  the  care  of  the 
physician,  when  she  hangs  over  him  as  he  is  sleep- 
ing, and  kisses  him  as  she  contemplates  the  wreck 
of  grief  and  majesty — 

0 my  dear  father!  Restoration  hang 

Its  medicine  on  my  lips,  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made! 

Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white,  flakes 
Had  challenged  pity  of  them!  Was  this  a face 
To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds? 

To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick  cross-lightning?  to  watch  (poor  perdu!) 

With  this  thin  helm?— Mine  enemy’s  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire. 

Her  mild  magnanimity  shines  out  in  her  fare- 
well to  her  sisters,  of  whose  real  character  she  is 
perfectly  aware — 

The  jewels  of  our  father!  with  wash’d  eyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you!  I know  you  what  you  are, 

And,  like  a sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 

Your  faults  as  they  are  named.  Use  well  our  father; 

To  your  professed  bosoms  I commit  him. 

But  yet,  alas!  stood  I within  his  grace, 

1 would  prefer  him  to  a better  place. 

So  farewell  to  you  both. 

Goneril.  Prescribe  not  us  our  duties! 


Cordelia. 


223 


The  modest  pride  with  which  she  replies  to  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  is  admirable:  this  whole  pass- 
age is  too  illustrative  of  the  peculiar  character  of 
Cordelia,  as  well  as  too  exquisite,  to  be  mutilated— 

I yet  beseech  your  majesty 
(If,  for  I want  that  glib  and  oily  art, 

To  speak  and  purpose  not;  since  what  I well  intend, 

I’ll  do  ’t  before  I speak),  that  you  make  known, 

It  is  no  vicious  blot,  nor  other  foulness, 

No  unchaste  action  or  dishonor’d  step, 

That  hath  depriv’d  me  of  your  grace  and  favor; 

But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  I am  richer: 

A still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a tongue 
That  I am  glad  I had  not,  tho’  not  to  have  it 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Hadst  not  been  born,  than  not  to  have  pleas’d  me  better. 

France.  Is  it  but  this?  a tardiness  in  nature, 

That  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 
That  it  intends  to  do?-— My  lord  of  Burgundy, 

What  say  you  to  the  lady?  Love  is  not  love 
When  it  is  mingled  with  respects  that  stand 
Aloof  from  th’  entire  point.  Will  you  have  her? 

She  is  herself  a dowry. 

Burgundy . Royal  Lear, 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos’d, 

And  here  I take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 

Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.  Nothing;  I have  sworn;  I am  firm. 

Burgundy.  I am  sorry,  then,  you  have  so  lost  a father, 
That  you  must  lose  a husband. 

Cordelia.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy! 

Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 

I shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.  Fairest  Cordelia!  that  art  most  rich,  being  poor; 
Most  choice,  forsaken,  and  most  lov’d,  despis’d! 

Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I seize  upon. 


She  takes  up  arms,  “not  for  ambition,  but  a 
'dear  father’s  right.”  In  her  speech,  after  her  de- 


224  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

feat,  we  have  a calm  fortitude  and  elevation  of 
soul,  arising  from  the  consciousness  of  duty,  and 
lifting  her  above  all  consideration  of  self.  She 
observes — 

We  are  not  the  first 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr’d  the  worst! 

She  thinks  and  fears  only  for  her  father — 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I cast  down; 

Myself  could  else  out-frown  false  fortune’s  frown. 

To  complete  the  picture,  her  very  voice  is 
characteristic,  “ever  soft,  gentle,  and  low;  an  ex- 
cellent thing  in  woman.” 

But  it  will  be  said  that  the  qualities  here  ex- 
emplified— as  sensibility,  gentleness,  magnanim- 
ity, fortitude,  generous  affection — are  qualities 
which  belong,  in  their  perfection,  to  others  of 
Shakspeare’s  characters:  to  Imogen,  for  instance, 
who  unites  them  all:  and  yet  Imogen  and  Cor 
delia  are  wholly  unlike  each  other.  Even  though 
we  should  reverse  their  situations,  and  give  to 
Imogen  the  filial  devotion  of  Cordelia,  and  to  Cor- 
delia the  conjugal  virtues  of  Imogen,  still  they 
would  remain  perfectly  distinct  as  women.  What 
is  it,  then,  which  lends  to  Cordelia  that  peculiar 
and  individual  truth  of  character  which  distin- 
guishes her  from  every  other  human  being? 

It  is  a natural  reserve,  a tardiness  of  disposition, 
“which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke  which  it 
intends  to  do;”  a subdued  quietness  of  deportment 
and  expression,  a veiled  shyness  thrown  over  all 
her  emotions,  her  language  and  her  manner, 
making  the  outward  demonstration  invariably  fall 
short  of  what  we  know  to  be  the  feeling  within. 


“ -v;  4^  ..  x 


CORDELIA  AND  KING  DEAR. 


Cordelia. 


225 


Not  only  is  the  portrait  singularly  beautiful  and 
interesting  in  itself,  but  the  conduct  of  Cordelia, 
and  the  part  which  she  bears  in  the  beginning  of 
the  story,  is  rendered  consistent  and  natural  by 
the  wonderful  truth  and  delicacy  with  which  this 
peculiar  disposition  is  sustained  throughout  the 
play. 

In  early  youth,  and  more  particularly  if  we  are 
gifted  with  a lively  imagination,  such  a character 
as  that  of  Cordelia  is  calculated  above  every  other 
to  impress  and  captivate  us.  Anything  like 
mystery,  anything  withheld  or  withdrawn  from 
our  notice,  seizes  on  our  fancy  by  awakening  our 
curiosity.  Then  we  are  won  more  by  what  we ' 
half  perceive  and  half  create,  than  by  what  is 
openly  expressed  and  freely  bestowed.  But  this 
feeling  is  a part  of  our  young  life:  when  time  and 
years  have  chilled  us,  when  we  can  no  longer 
afford  to  send  our  souls  abroad,  nor  from  our  own 
superfluity  of  life  and  sensibility  spare  the  ma- 
terials out  of  which  wre  build  a shrine  for  our  idol, 
then  do  we  seek,  we  ask,  we  thirst  for  that  warmth 
of  frank,  confiding  tenderness,  which  revives  in  us 
the  withered  affections  and  feelings,  buried  but 
not  dead.  Then  the  excess  of  love  is  welcomed, 
not  repelled:  it  is  gracious  to  us  as  the  sun  and 
dew  to  the  seared  and  riven  trunk,  with  its  few 
green  leaves,  Lear  is  old- — “fourscore  and  up- 
wards”— but  we  see  what  he  has  been  in  former 
days:  the  ardent  passions  of  youth  have  turned  to 
rashness  and  wilfulness:  he  is  long  passed  that  age 
when  we  are  more  blessed  in  what  we  bestow  than 
in  what  we  receive.  When  he  says  to  his  daugh- 
ters, “I  gave  ye  all!”  we  feel  that  he  requires  all 


226 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

in  return,  with  a jealous,  restless,  exacting  affec- 
tion which  defeats  its  own  wishes.  How  many 
such  are  there  in  the  world!  How  many  to  sym- 
pathize with  the  fiery,  fond  old  man,  when  he 
shrinks,  as  if  petrified,  from  Cordelia’s  quiet  calm 
reply! — 

Lear.  Now  our  joy, 

Although  our  last  and  least 

....  What  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters?  Speak! 

Cordelia.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Nothing? 

Cordelia.  Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing;  speak  again. 
Cordelia.  Unhappy  that  I am!  I cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth;  I love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond;  nor  more,  nor  less. 


How  this  is  perfectly  natural.  Cordelia  has 
penetrated  the  vile  characters  of  her  sisters.  Is 
it  not  obvious  that  in  proportion  as  her  own  mind 
is  pure  and  guileless,  she  must  be  disgusted  with 
their  gross  hypocrisy  and  exaggeration,  their 
empty  protestations,  their  "plaited  cunning;”  and 
would  retire  from  all  competition  with  what  she 
so  disdains  and  abhors, — even  into  the  opposite 
extreme?  In  such  a case,  as  she  says  herself — 

What  shall  Cordelia  do?— love  and  be  silent? 

For  the  very  expressions  of  Lear — 

What  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters? 

are  enough  to  strike  dumb  for  ever  a generous, 
delicate,  but  shy  disposition,  such  as  is  Cordelia’s, 
by  holding  out  a bribe  for  professions. 


Cordelia. 


227 


If  Cordelia  were  nor  thus  portrayed,  this  de- 
liberate coolness  would  strike  us  as  verging  on 
harshness  or  obstinacy;  but  it  is  beautifully  rep- 
resented as  a certain  modification  of  character,  the 
necessary  result  of  feelings  habitually,  if  not 
naturally,  repressed:  and  through  the  whole  play 
we  trace  the  same  peculiar  and  individual  disposi- 
tion— the  same  absence  of  all  display — the  same 
sobriety  of  speech  veiling  the  most  profound  affec- 
tions— the  same  quiet  steadiness  of  purpose — the 
same  shrinking  from  all  exhibition  of  emotion. 

“Tous  les  sentimens  naturels  out  leur  pudeur” 
was  a viva  voce  observation  of  Madame  de  Stael, 
when  disgusted  by  the  sentimental  affections  of 
her  imitators.  This  “pudeur,”  carried  to  an  ex- 
cess, appears  to  me  the  peculiar  characteristic  of 
Cordelia.  Thus,  in  the  description  of  her  deport- 
ment when  she  receives  the  letter  of  the  Earl  of 
Kent,  informing  her  of  the  cruelty  of  her  sisters 
and  the  wretched  condition  of  Lear,  we  seem  to 
have  her  before  us — 


Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any 
demonstration  of  grief? 

Gentleman,  Ay,  sir,  she  took  them,  read  them  in 
my  presence; 

And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill’d  down 
Her  delicate  cheek.  It  seem’d  she  was  a queen 
Over  her  passion,  who,  most  rebel-like, 

Sought  to  be  king  o’er  her. 

Kent.  O,  then  it  mov’d  her? 

Gentleman . Not  to  a rage  ..... 

’Faith,  once,  or  twice,  she  heav’d  the  name  of 
“father,” 

Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press’d  her  heart; 

Cried,  Sisters!  sisters!  Shame  of  ladies!  Sisters! 
YChat?  i’  the  storm!  i’  the  night! 

H 


228  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Let  pity  not  be  believed!  There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes. 

******* 

Then  away  she  started, 

To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Here  the  last  line — the  image  brought  before  us 
of  Cordelia  starting  away  from  observation,  “to 
deal  with  grief  alone” — is  as  exquisitely  beautiful 
as  it  is  characteristic. 

But  all  the  passages  hitherto  quoted  must  yield 
in  beauty  and  power  to  that  scene,  in  which  her 
poor  father  recognizes  her,  and  in  the  intervals 
of  distraction  asks  forgiveness  of  his  wronged 
child.  The  subdued  pathos  and  simplicity  of  Cor- 
delia’s character,  her  quiet  but  intense  feeling,  the 
misery  and  humiliation  of  the  bewildered  old 
man,  are  brought  before  us  in  so  few  words,  and 
at  the  same  time  sustained  with  such  a deep  intui- 
tive knowledge  of  the  innermost  workings  of  the 
human  heart,  that  as  there  is  nothing  surpassing 
this  scene  in  Shakspeare  himself,  so  there  is  noth- 
ing that  can  be  compared  to  it  in  any  other 
writer — 

Cordelia.  How  does  my  royal  lord?  How  fares  your 
majesty? 

Lear.  Yon  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o’  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a soul  in  bliss;  but  I am  bound 
Upon  a wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cordelia.  Sir,  do  you  know  me? 

Lear.  You  are  a spirit,  I know;  when  did  you  die? 

Cordelia.  Still,  still,  far  wide! 

Physician.  He’s  scarce  awake;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear . Where  have  I been? — Where  am  I? — Fair  day 
light ! — 

I am  mightily  abus’d.— I should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus.— I know  not  what  to  say. — 


Cordelia. 


229 


I will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands:— let's  see; 

I feel  this  pin  prick.  Would  I were  assur’d 
Of  my  condition! 

Cordelia.  O!  look  upon  me,  sir, 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o’er  me:— 

No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray  do  not  mock  me; 

I am  a very  foolish  fond  old  man, 

Fourscore  and  upward; 

Not  an  hour  more,  nor  less;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 

I fear  I am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

Methinks  I should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 

Yet  I am  doubtful;  for  I am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is;  and  all  the  skill  I have 
Remembers  not  these  garments;  nor  I know  not 
Vvhere  I did  lodge  last  night.  Do  not  laugh  at  me; 

For,  as  I am  a man,  I think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cordelia.  And  so  I am,  I am! 

Lear.  Be  your  tears  wet?  Yes,  ’faith.  I pray  weep  not; 

If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I will  drink  it. 

I know  you  do  not  love  me;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I do  remember,  done  me  wrong: 

You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cordelia.  No  cause,  no  cause! 

As  we  do  not  estimate  Cordelia’s  affection  for 
her  father  by  the  coldness  of  her  language,,  so 
neither  should  we  measure  her  indignation  against 
her  sisters  by  the  mildness  of  her  expressions. 
What,  in  fact,  can  be  more  eloquently  significant* 
and  at  the  same  time  more  characteristic  of  Cor- 
delia, than  the  single  line  when  she  and  her  father 
are  conveyed  to  their  prison — 

Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters  and  these  sisters  ? 

The  irony  here  is  so  bitter  and  intense,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  quiet,  so  feminine,  so  dignified  in  the 
expression,  that  who  but  Cordelia  would  have 
uttered  it  in  the  same  manner,  or  would  have  con- 
densed such  ample  meaning  into  so  few  and  simple 
words? 


230  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

We  lose  sight  of  Cordelia  during  the  whole  of 
the  second  and  third  and  a great  part  of  the  foutk 
act,  but  towards  the  conclusion  she  reappears. 
Just  as  our  sense  of  human  misery  and  wicked- 
ness, being  carried  to  its  extreme  height,  becomes 
nearly  intolerable,  “like  an  engine  wrenching  our 
frame  of  nature  from  its  fixed  place,”  then,  like 
a redeeming  angel,  she  descends  to  mingle  in  the 
scene,  “loosening  the  springs  of  pity  in  our  eyes,” 
and  relieving  the  impressions  of  pain  and  terror 
by  those  of  admiration  and  a tender  pleasure.  For 
the  catastrophe,  it  is  indeed  terrible!  wondrous 
terrible!  When  Lear  enters  with  Cordelia  dead 
in  his  arms,  compassion  and  awe  so  seize  on  all 
our  faculties,  that  we  are  left  only  to  silence  and 
to  tears.  But  if  I might  judge  from  my  own  sen- 
sations, the  catastrophe  of  Lear  is  not  so  over- 
whelming as  the  catastrophe  of  Othello.  We  do 
not  turn  away  with  the  same  feeling  of  absolute 
unmitigated  despair.  Cordelia  is  a saint  ready 
prepared  for  heaven — our  earth  is  not  good 
enough  for  her;  and  Lear!  0 who,  after  suffer- 
ings and  tortures  such  as  his,  would  wish  to  see 
his  life  prolonged?  What!  replace  a sceptre  in 
that  shaking  hand? — a crown  upon  that  old  grey 
head,  on  which  the  tempest  had  poured  in  its 
wrath,  on  which  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunders 
and  the  winged  lightnings  had  spent  their  fury? 
0 never,  never! — 

Let  him  pass!  He  hates  him 

That  would,  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world, 

Stretch  him  out  longer. 

In  the  story  of  King  Lear  and  his  three  daugh- 
ters, as  it  is  related  in  the  “delectable  and  melli- 


Cordelia 


231 


fiuous”  romance  of  Perceforest,  and  in  the  Chron- 
icle of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  the  conclusion  is 
fortunate.  Cordelia  defeats  her  sisters,  and  re- 
places her  father  on  his  throne.  Spenser,  in  his 
version  of  the  story,  has  followed  these  authorities. 
Shakspeare  has  preferred  the  catastrophe  of  the 
old  ballad,  founded  apparently  on  some  lost  tra- 
dition. I suppose  it  is  by  way  of  amending  his 
errors,  and  bringing  back  this  daring  innovator  to 
sober  history,  that  it  has  been  thought  fit  to  alter 
the  play  of  “Lear”  for  the  stage,  as  they  have 
altered  Romeo  and  Juliet;  they  have  converted 
the  seraph-like  Cordelia  into  a puling  love  heroine, 
and  sent  her  off  victorious  at  the  end  of  the  play 
— exit  with  drums  and  colors  flying — to  be 
married  to  Edgar.  Now  anything  more  absurd, 
more  discordant  with  all  our  previous  impres- 
sions, and  with  the  characters  as  unfolded  to  us, 
can  hardly  be  imagined.  “I  cannot  conceive,”  says 
Schlegel,  “what  ideas  of  art  and  dramatic  connec- 
tion these  persons  have  who  suppose  we  can  at 
pleasure  tack  a double  conclusion  to  a tragedy — 
a melancholy  one  for  hard-hearted  spectators,  and 
a merry  one  for  those  of  softer  mold.”  The  fierce 
manners  depicted  in  this  play,  the  extremes  of 
virtue  and  vice  in  the  persons,  belong  to  the  re- 
mote period  of  the  story.*  There  is  no  attempt  at 
character  in  the  old  narratives;  Regan  and  Goneril 
are  monsters  of  ingratitude,  and  Cordelia  merely 
distinguished  by  her  filial  pity:  whereas,  in  Shak- 
speare, this  filial  piety  is  an  affection  quite  distinct 

* King  Lear  may  be  supposed  to  have  lived  about  one 
thousand  years  before  the  Christian  era,  being  the  fourth  or 
fifth  in  descent  from  King  Brut,  the  great-grandson  of 
^Eneas,  and  the  fabulous  founder  of  the  kingdom  of  Britain. 


232  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

from  the  qualities  which  serve  to  individualize  the 
human  being;  we  have  a perception  of  innate 
character  apart  from  all  accidental  circumstance; 
we  see  that  if  Cordelia  had  never  known  her 
father,  had  never  been  rejected  from  his  love,  had 
never  been  a born  princess  or  a crowned  queen, 
she  would  not  have  been  less  Cordelia,  less  dis- 
tinctly herself — that  is,  a woman  of  a steady  mind, 
of  calm  but  deep  affections,  of  inflexible  truth, 
of  few  w~ords,  and  of  reserved  deportment. 

As  to  Regan  and  Goneril — “tigers,  not  daugh- 
ters7'— we  might  wish  to  regard  them  as  mere 
hateful  chimeras,  impossible  as  they  are  detesta- 
ble; but  unfortunately  there  was  once  a Tullia. 
1 know  not  where  to  look  for  the  prototype  of 
Cordelia:  there  was  a Julia  Alpinula,  the  young 
priestess  of  Aventicum,*  who,  unable  to  save  her 
father's  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  own,  died  with 
him — “ infelix  patris  infelix  proles;”  but  this  is 
all  we  know  of  her.  There  was  the  Roman  daugh- 
ter, too.  I remember  seeing,  at  Genoa,  Guido’s 
“Pieta  Romana,”  in  which  the  expression  of  the 
female  bending  over  the  aged  parent,  who  feeds 
from  her  bosom,  is  perfect, — but  it  is  not  a Cor- 
delia: only  Raffaelle  could  have  painted  Cordelia. 

But  the  character  which  at  once  suggests  itself 
in  comparison  with  Cordelia,  as  the  heroine  of 
filial  tenderness  and  piety,  is  certainly  the  Anti- 
gone of  Sophocles.  As  poetical  conceptions,  they 
rest  on  the  same  basis;  they  are  both  pure  abstrac- 
tions of  truth,  piety,  and  natural  affection;  and  in 
both  love,  as  a passion,  is  kept  entirely  out  of 

* She  is  commemorated  by  Lord  Byron.  See  “Childe 
Harold,”  Canto  III. 


Cordelia. 


233 


sight;  for  though  the  womanly  character  is  sus- 
tained by  making  them  the  objects  of  devoted 
attachment,  yet  to  have  portrayed  them  as  in- 
fluenced by  passion  would  have  destroyed  that 
unity  of  purpose  and  feeling  which  is  one  source 
of  power,  and,  besides,  have  disturbed  that  serene 
purity  and  grandeur  of  soul  which  equally  distin- 
guishes both  heroines.  The  spirit,  however,  in 
which  the  two  characters  is  conceived  is  as  differ- 
ent as  possible;  and  we  must  not  fail  to  remark 
that  Antigone,  who  plays  a principal  part  in  two 
fine  tragedies,  and  is  distinctly  and  completely 
made  out,  is  considered  as  a masterpiece,  the 
very  triumph  of  the  ancient  classical  drama; 
whereas  there  are  many  among  Shakspeare’s 
characters  which  are  equal  to  Cordelia  as  dramatic 
conceptions,  and  superior  to  her  in  finishing  of 
outline,  as  well  as  in  the  richness  of  the  poetical 
coloring. 

When  CEdipus,  pursued  by  the  vengeance  of 
the  gods,  deprived  of  sight  by  his  own  mad  act, 
and  driven  from  Thebes  by  his  subjects  and  his 
sons,  wanders  forth  abject  and  forlorn,  he  is  sup- 
ported by  his  daughter  Antigone,  who  leads  him 
from  city  to  city,  begs  for  him,  and  pleads  for  him 
against  the  harsh,  rude  men,  who,  struck  more  by 
his  guilt  than  his  misery,  wrould  drive  him  from 
his  last  asylum.  In  the  opening  of  the  "CEdipus 
Coloneus/’  where  the  wretched  old  man  appears 
leaning  on  his  child,  and  seats  himself  in  the  con- 
secrated Grove  of  the  Furies,  the  picture  presented 
to  us  is  wonderfully  solemn  and  beautiful.  The 
patient,  duteous  tenderness  of  Antigone;  the  scene 
in  which  she  pleads  for  her  brother  Polynices,  and 


234  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

supplicates  her  father  to  receive  his  offending  son; 
her  remonstrance  to  Polynices,  when  she  entreats 
him  not  to  carry  the  threatened  war  into  his  native 
country,  are  finely  and  powerfully  delineated;  and 
in  her  lamentation  over  (Edipus,  when  he  perishes 
in  the  mysterious  grove,  there  is  a pathetic  beauty, 
apparent  even  through  the  stiffness  of  the  trans- 
lation— 

Alas!  I only  wish’d  I might  have  died 

With  my  poor  father;  wherefore  should  I ask 

For  longer  life? 

O,  I was  fond  of  misery  with  him; 

E’en  what  was  most  unlovely  grew  beloved 
When  he  was  with  me.  O my  dearest  father, 
Beneath  the  earth  now  in  deep  darkness  hid, 

Worn  as  thou  wert  with  age,  to  me  thou  still 
Wert  dear,  and  shall  be  ever. 

. . . Even  as  he  wished  he  died, 

In  a strange  land— for  such  was  his  desire— 

A shady  turf  covered  his  lifeless  limbs, 

Nor  unlamented  fell!  for,  O,  these  eyes, 

My  father,  still  shall  weep  for  thee,  nor  time 
E’er  blot  thee  from  my  memory. 

The  filial  piety  of  Antigone  is  the  most  affecting 
part  of  the  tragedy  of  “(Edipus  Coloneus;”  her 
sisterly  affection,  and  her  heroic  self-devotion  to 
a religious  duty,  form  the  plot  of  the  tragedy 
called  by  her  name.  When  her  two  brothers, 
Eteocles  and  Polynices,  had  slain  each  other  be- 
fore the  walls  of  Thebes,  Creon  issued  an  edict 
forbidding  the  rights  of  sepulture  to  Polynices  (as 
the  invader  of  his  country),  and  awarding  instant 
death  to  those  who  should  dare  to  bury  him.  We 
know  the  importance  which  the  ancients  attached 
to  the  funeral  obsequies,  as  alone  securing  their 
admission  into  the  Elysian  fields.  Antigone,  upon 
hearing  the  law  of  Creon,  which  thus  carried  ven- 


Cordelia. 


235 


geanee  beyond  the  grave,  enters  in  the  first  scene, 
announcing  her  fixed  resolution  to  brave  the 
threatened  punishment.  Her  sister  Ismene 
shrinks  from  sharing  the  peril  of  such  an  under- 
taking, and  endeavors  to  dissuade  her  from  it,  on 
which  Antigone  replies — 

Wert  thou  to  proffer  what  I do  not  ask— 

Thy  poor  assistance— I would  scorn  it  now; 

Act  as  thou  wilt,  I’ll  bury  him  myself; 

Let  me  perform  but  that,  and  death  is  welcome. 

I’ll  do  the  pious  deed,  and  lay  me  down 
By  my  dear  brother;  loving  and  beloved, 

We’ll  rest  together. 

She  proceeds  to  execute  her  generous  purpose;  she 
covers  with  earth  the  mangled  corse  of  Polynices, 
pours  over  it  the  accustomed  libations,  is  detected 
in  her  pious  office,  and  after  nobly  defending  her 
conduct,  is  led  to  death  by  command  of  the 
tyrant.  Her  sister  Ismene,  struck  with  shame  and 
remorse,  now  comes  forward  to  accuse  herself 
as  a partaker  in  the  offense,  and  share  her  sister’s 
punishment;  but  Antigone  sternly  and  scornfully 
rejects  her,  and  after  pouring  forth  a beautiful 
lamentation  on  the  misery  of  perishing  “without 
the  nuptial  song — a virgin  and  a slave” — she  dies 
a V antique;  she  strangles  herself  to  avoid  a linger- 
ing death. 

Hemon,  the  son  of  Creon,  unable  to  save  her 
life,  kills  himself  upon  her  grave;  but  throughout 
the  whole  tragedy  we  are  left  in  doubt  whether 
Antigone  does  or  does  not  return  the  affection  of 
this  devoted  lover. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  “Antigone” 
there  is  a great  deal  of  what  may  be  called  the 


236  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

effect  of  situation,  as  well  as  a great  deal  of 
poetry  and  character:  she  says  the  most  beautiful 
things  in  the  world,  performs  the  most  heroic 
actions,  and  all  her  words  and  actions  are  so  placed 
before  us  as  to  command  our  admiration.  Accord- 
ing to  the  classical  ideas  of  virtue  and  heroism, 
the  character  is  sublime,  and  in  the  delineation 
there  is  a severe  simplicity  mingled  with  its 
Grecian  grace,  a unity,  a grandeur,  an  elegance, 
which  appeal  to  our  taste  and  our  understanding, 
while  they  fill  and  exalt  the  imagination.  But  in 
Cordelia  it  is  not  the  external  coloring  or  form, 
it  is  not  what  she  says  or  does,  but  what  sbe  is  in 
herself,  what  she  feels,  thinks,  and  suffers,  which 
continually  awaken  our  sympathy  and  interest. 
The  heroism  of  Cordelia  is  more  passive  and 
tender — it  melts  into  our  heart;  and  in  the  veiled 
loveliness  and  unostentatious  delicacy  of  her 
character  there  is  an  effect  more  profound  and  art- 
less, if  it  be  less  striking  and  less  elaborate  than  in 
the  Grecian  heroine.  To  Antigone  we  give  our 
admiration,  to  Cordelia  our  tears.  Antigone 
stands  before  us  in  her  austere  and  statue-like 
beauty,  like  one  of  the  marbles  of  the  Parthenon. 
If  Cordelia  reminds  us  of  anything  on  earth,  it  is 
of  one  of  the  Madonnas  in  the  old  Italian  pictures, 
“with  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  almighty  dove;” 
and  as  that  heavenly  form  is  connected  with  our 
human  sympathies  only  by  the  expression  of  ma- 
ternal tenderness  or  maternal  sorrow,  even  so  Cor- 
delia would  be  almost  too  angelic,  were  she  not 
linked  to  our  earthly  feelings,  bound  to  our  very 
hearts,  by  her  filial  love,  her  wrongs,  her  suffer- 
ings, and  her  tears. 


Historical  Characters. 


CLEOPATEA. 


I CANNOT  agree  with  one  of  the  most  philo- 
sophical of  Shakspeare’s  critics,  who  has  as- 
serted “that  the  actual  truth  of  particular 
events,  in  proportion  as  we  are  conscious  of  it,  is  a 
drawback  on  the  pleasure  as  well  as  the  dignity  of 
tragedy.”  If  this  observation  applies  at  all,  it  is 
equally  just  with  regard  to  characters;  and  in 
either  case  can  we  admit  it?  The  reverence  and 
the  simpleness  of  heart  with  which  Shakspeare  has 
treated  the  received  and  admitted  truths  of  history 
— I mean  according  to  the  imperfect  knowledge 
of  his  time — is  admirable;  his  inaccuracies  are  few; 
his  general  accuracy,  allowing  for  the  distinction 
between  the  narrative  and  the  dramatic  form,  is 
acknowledged  to  be  wonderful.  He  did  not  steal 
the  precious  material  from  the  treasury  of  History 
to  debase  its  purity,  new-stamp  it  arbitrarily  with 
effigies  and  legends  of  his  own  devising,  and  then 
attempt  to  pass  it  current,  like  Dryden,  Eacine, 
and  the  rest  of  those  poetical  coiners;  he  only 
rubbed  off  the  rust,  purified  and  brightened  it,  so 
that  History  herself  has  been  known  to  receive  it 
back  as  sterling. 

Truth,  wherever  manifested  should  be  sacred; 
so  Shakspeare  deemed,  and  laid  no  profane  hand 
upon  her  altars.  But  Tragedy,  majestic  tragedy, 
is  worthy  to  stand  before  the  sanctuary  of  Truth, 
and  to  be  the  priestess  of  her  oracles.  “Whatever 
in  religion  is  holy  and  sublime,  in  virtue  amiable 

239 


240  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

or  grave,  whatsoever  hath  passion  or  admiration 
in  all  the  changes  of  that  which  is  called  fortune 
from  without,  or  the  wily  subtleties  and  refluxes 
of  man’s  thought  from  within;”*  whatever  is  piti- 
ful in  the  weakness,  sublime  in  the  strength,  or 
terrible  in  the  perversion  of  human  intellect,  these 
are  the  domain  of  Tragedy.  Sybil  and  Muse  at 
once,  she  holds  aloft  the  book  of  human  fate,  and 
is  the  interpreter  of  its  mysteries.  It  is  not,  then, 
making  a mock  of  the  serious  sorrows  of  real  life, 
nor  of  those  human  beings  who  lived,  suffered, 
and  acted  upon  this  earth,  to  array  them  in  her 
rich  and  stately  robes,  and  present  them  before 
us  as  powers  evoked  from  dust  and  darkness,  to 
awaken  the  generous  sympathies,  the  terror  or  the 
pity,  of  mankind.  It  does  not  add  to  the  pain 
as  far  as  tragedy  is  a source  of  motion,  that  the 
wrongs  and  sufferings  represented,  the  guilt  of 
Lady  Macbeth,  the  despair  of  Constance,  the  arts 
of  Cleopatra,  and  the  distresses  of  Katherine,  had 
a real  existence;  but  it  adds  infinitely  to  the  moral 
effect,  as  a subject  of  contemplation  and  a lesson 
of  conduct.f 

I shall  be  able  to  illustrate  these  observations 
more  fully  in  the  course  of  this  section,  in  which 
we  will  consider  those  characters  which  are  drawn 
from  history;  and  first,  Cleopatra. 


* Milton. 

t “That  the  treachery  of  King  John,  the  death  of  Arthur, 
and  the  errief  of  Constance,  had  a real  truth  in  history, 
sharpens  the  sense  of  pain,  while  it  hangs  a leaden  weight 
on  the  heart  and  the  imagination.  Something  whispers  us 
that  we  have  no  right  to  make  a mock  ©f  calamities  like 
these,  or  turn  the  truth  of  things  into  the  puppet  and  play- 
thing of  our  fancies.”— See  ‘‘Characters  of  Shakspeare’s 
Plays.”  To  consider  thus  is  not  to  consider  too  deeply,  but 
not  deeply  enough . 


Cleopatra.  241 

Of  all  Shakspeare’s  female  characters,  Miranda 
and  Cleopatra  appear  to  me  the  most  wonderful. 
The  first,  unequaled  as  a poetic  conception;  the 
latter,  miraculous  as  a work  of  art.  If  we  could 
make  a regular  classification  of  his  characters, 
these  would  form  the  two  extremes  of  simplicity 
and  complexity;  and  all  his  other  characters  would 
be  found  to  fill  up  some  shade  or  gradation  be- 
tween these  two. 

Great  crimes,  springing  from  high  passions, 
grafted  on  high  qualities,  are  the  legitimate  source 
of  tragic  poetry.  But  to  make  the  extreme  of  lit- 
tleness produce  an  effect  like  grandeur,  to  make 
the  excess  of  frailty  produce  an  effect  like  power, 
to  heap  up  together  all  that  is  most  unsubstantial, 
frivolous,  vain,  contemptible,  and  variable  till  the 
worthlessness  be  lost  in  the  magnitude  and  a sense 
of  the  sublime  spring  from  the  very  elements  of 
littleness — to  do  this  belonged  only  to  Shakspeare, 
that  worker  of  miracles.  Cleopatra  is  a brilliant 
antithesis,  a compound  of  contradictions,  of  all 
that  we  most  hate  with  what  we  most  admire. 
The  whole  character  is  the  triumph  of  the  external 
over  the  innate ; and  yet,  like  one  of  her  country's 
hieroglyphics,  though  she  present  at  first  view  a 
splendid  and  perplexing  anomaly,  there  is  deep 
meaning  and  wondrous  skill  in  the  apparent 
enigma  when  we  come  to  analyze  and  decipher  it. 
But  how  are  we  to  arrive  at  the  solution  of  this 
glorious  riddle,  whose  dazzling  complexity  con- 
tinually mocks  and  eludes  us?  What  is  most 
astonishing  in  the  character  of  Cleopatra  is  its 
antithetical  construction — its  consistent  inconsist- 
ency, if  I may  use  such  an  expression — which 


242  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

renders  it  quite  impossible  to  reduce  it  to  any  ele- 
mentary principles.  It  will,  perhaps,  be  found, 
on  the  whole  that  vanity  and  the  love  of  power 
predominate;  but  I dare  not  say  it  is  so,  for  these 
qualities  and  a hundred  others  mingle  into  each 
other,  and  shift  and  change  and  glance  away  like 
the  colors  in  a peacock’s  train. 

In  some  others  of  Shakspeare’s  female  charac- 
ters, also  remarkable  for  their  complexity  (Portia 
and  Juliet,  for  instance),  we  are  struck  with  the 
delightful  sense  of  harmony  in  the  midst  of  con- 
trast, so  that  the  idea  of  unity  and  simplicity  of 
effect  is  produced  in  the  midst  of  variety.  But 
in  Cleopatra  it  is  the  absence  of  unity  and  sim- 
plicity which  strikes  us;  the  impression  is  that  of 
perpetual  and  irreconcilable  contrast.  The  con- 
tinual approximation  of  whatever  is  most  opposite 
in  character,  in  situation,  in  sentiment,  would 
be  fatiguing  were  it  not  so  perfectly  natural;  the 
woman  herself  would  be  distracting  if  she  were 
not  so  enchanting. 

I have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Shakspeare’s 
Cleopatra  is  the  real  historical  Cleopatra — the 
“rare  Egyptian” — individualized  and  placed  be- 
fore us.  Her  mental  accomplishments,  her  un- 
equaled grace,  her  woman’s  wit  and  woman’s 
wiles,  her  irresistible  allurements,  her  starts  of 
irregular  grandeur,  her  bursts  of  ungovernable 
temper,  her  vivacity  of  imagination,  her  petulant 
caprice,  her  fickleness  and  her  falsehood,  her  ten- 
derness and  her  truth,  her  childish  susceptibility 
to  flattery,  her  magnificent  spirit,  her  royal  pride, 
the  gorgeous  eastern  coloring  of  the  character — 
all  these  contradictory  elements  has  Shakspeare 


Cleopatra.  243 

seized,  mingled  them  in  their  extremes,  and  fused 
them  into  one  brilliant  impersonation  of  classical 
elegance,  Oriental  voluptuousness  and  gipsy 
sorcery. 

What  better  proof  can  we  have  of  the  individual 
truth  of  the  character  than  the  admission  that 
Shakspeare’s  Cleopatra  produces  exactly  the  same 
effect  on  us  that  is  recorded  of  the  real  Cleopatra? 
She  dazzles  our  faculties,  perplexes  our  judgment, 
bewilders  and  bewitches  our  fancy;  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end  of  the  drama  we  are  conscious 
of  a kind  of  fascination  against  which  our  moral 
sense  rebels,  but  from  which  there  is  no  escape. 
The  epithets  applied  to  her  perpetually  by  Antony 
and  others  confirm  this  impression;  “enchanting 
queen” — “witch”  “spell” — “great  fairy”  “cocka- 
trice”— “serpent  of  old  Nile” — “thou  gave* 
charm!”  are  only  a few  of  them,  and  who  does  not 
know  by  heart  the  famous  quotations  in  which  this 
Egyptian  Circe  is  described,  with  all  her  infinite 
seductions? — 


Pie,  wrangling  queen! 

Whom  everything  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admir’d. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety:  .... 

....  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her. 


And  the  pungent  irony  of  Enobarbus  has  well  ex- 
posed her  feminine  arts  when  he  says,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  Antony’s  intended  departure — 

* Grave , in  the  sense  of  mighty  or  potent. 


244 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Cleopatra,  catching  but  the  least  noise  of  this,  dies  im> 
stantly;  I have  seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer 
moment. 

Antony.  She  is  cunning  past  man’s  thought. 

Enobarbus.  Alack,  sir,  no!  Her  passions  are  made  of 
nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love.  We  cannot  call  her 
winds  and  waters,  sighs  and  tears;  they  are  greater  storms 
and  tempests  than  almanacs  can  report;  this  cannot  be 
cunning  in  her;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a shower  of  rain  as  well 
as  Jove. 

The  whole  secret  of  her  absolute  dominion  oyer 
the  facile  Antony  may  be  found  in  one  little 
speech — 

See  where  he  is— who’s  with  him— what  he  does: — 

(I  did  not  send  you.)  If  you  find  him  sad, 

Say  I am  dancing;  if  in  mirth,  report 

That  I am  sudden  sick.  Quick!  and  return. 

Charmian.  Madam,  methinks,  if  you  did  love  him  dearly, 

You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 

The  like  from  him. 

Cleopatra.  What  should  I do  I do  not? 

Charmian.  In  each  thing  give  him  way;  cross  him  in 
nothing. 

Cleopatra.  Thou  teachest  like  a fool,  the  way  to  lose 
him. 

Charmion.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far. 

But  Cleopatra  is  a mistress  of  her  art,  and  knows 
better;  and  what  a picture  of  her  triumphant  petu- 
lance, her  imperious  and  imperial  coquetry,  is 
given  in  her  own  words! — 

That  time— O,  times!— 

I laugh’d  him  out  of  patience;  and  that  night 
I laugh’d  him  into  patience;  and  next  morn, 

Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I drunk  him  to  his  bed; 

Then  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I wore  his  sword,  Philippan. 

When  Antony  enters,  full  of  some  serious  pur- 
pose which  he  is  about  to  impart,  the  woman’s 


Cleopatra.  245 

perverseness  and  the  tyrannical  waywardness  with 
which  she  taunts  him  and  plays  upon  his  temper 
are  admirably  depicted — 

I know,  by  that  same  eye,  there’s  some  good  news. 

What  says  the  married  woman ?*— You  may  go; 

’Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come! 

Let  her  not  say,  ’tis  I that  keep  you  here; 

I have  no  power  upon  you;  hers  you  are. 

Antony.  The  gods  best  know — 

Cleopatra.  O,  never  was  there  queen 
So  mightily  betray’d!  Yet,  at  the  first, 

I saw  the  treasons  planted. 

Antony.  Cleopatra!— 

Cleopatra.  Why  should  I think  you  can  be  mine,  and 
true, 

Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods, 

Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia?  Riotous  madness, 

To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 

Which  break  themselves  in  swearing! 

Antony.  Most  sweet  queen! 

Cleopatra.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  color  for  your  going, 
But  bid  farewell,  and  go. 


She  recovers  her  dignity  for  a moment  at  the 
news  of  Fulvia’s  death,  as  if  roused  by  a blow — 

Though  age  from  folly  could  not  give  me  freedom, 

It  does  from  childishness: — Can  Fulvia  die? 

And  then  follows  the  artful  mockery  with  which 
she  tempts  and  provokes  him,  in  order  to  discover 
whether  he  regrets  his  wife — 

O most  false  love! 

Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  sorrowful  water?  Now  I see,  I see 
In  Fulvia’s  death,  how  mine  receiv’d  shall  be. 

Antony.  Quarrel  no  more;  but  be  prepar’d  to  know 
The  purposes  I bear,  which  are,  or  cease, 

* Fulvia,  the  first  wife  of  Antony. 


246 


Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

As  you  shall  give  th’  advice.  By  the  fire 
That  quickens  Nilus’  slime,  I go  from  hence, 

Thy  soldier,  servant,  making  peace,  or  war, 

As  thou  affectest. 

Cleopatra.  Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come— 

But  let  it  be.  I am  quickly  ill,  and  well, 

So  Antony  loves. 

Antony.  My  precious  queen,  forbear; 

And  give  true  evidence  to  his  love,  which  stands 
An  honorable  trial. 

Cleopatra.  So  Fulvia  told  me. 

I pr’ythee,  turn  aside,  and  wreep  for  her; 

Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say,  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt.  Good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling,  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honor. 

Antony.  You'll  heat  my  blood;  no  more. 

Cleopatra.  You  can  do  better  yet,  but  this  is  meetly. 
Antony.  Now,  by  my  swTord — 

Cleopatra.  And  target— still  he  mends; 

But  this  is  not  the  best.  Look,  pr’ythee,  Charmian, 

How  this  Herculean  Roman  does  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe. 

This  is,  indeed,  most  “excellent  dissembling:’’ 
but  when  she  has  fooled  and  chafed  the  Herculean 
Roman  to  the  verge  of  danger,  then  comes  that  re- 
turn of  tenderness  which  secures  the  power  she 
has  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  we  have  all  the  ele- 
gant, the  poetical  Cleopatra,  in  her  beautiful  fare- 
well— 

Forgive  me! 

Since  my  becomings  kill  me  when  they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you.  Your  honor  calls  you  hence, 
Therefore  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly, 

And  all  the  gods  go  with  you!  Upon  your  sword 
Sit  laurel’d  victory;  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew’d  before  your  feet! 

Finer  still  are  the  workings  of  her  variable  mind 
and  lively  imagination  after  Antony’s  departure; 


247 


Cleopatra. 

her  fond  repining  at  his  absence,  her  violent 
spirit,  her  right  royal  wilfulness  and  impatience, 
as  if  it  were  a wrong  to  her  majesty,  an  insult  to 
her  sceptre,  that  there  should  exist  in  her  despite 
such  things  as  space  and  time,  and  high  treason 
to  her  sovereign  power  to  dare  to  lemember  what 
she  chooses  to  forget — 

Give  me  to  drink  mandragora, 

That  I might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time 
My  Antony  is  away. 

O Charmian! 

Where  think’st  thou  he  is  now?  Stands  he,  or  sits  he, 

Or  does  he  walk?  Or  is  he  on  his  horse? 

0 happy  horse,  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony! 

Do  bravely,  horse!  for  wot’st  thou  whom  thou  mov’st? 
The  demi-Atlas  of  this  earth— the  arm 
And  burgonet  of  men.  He’s  speaking  now, 

Or  murmuring:  Where’s  my  serpent  of  old  Nile? 

For  so  he  calls  me. 

Met’st  thou  my  posts? 

Alexas.  Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers. 

Why  do  you  send  so  thick? 

Cleopatra.  Who’s  born  that  day 
When  I forget  to  send  to  Antony, 

Shall  die  a beggar.— Ink  and  paper,  Charmian. 

Welcome,  my  good  Alexas.— Did  I,  Charmian, 

Ever  love  Caesar  so? 

Charmian.  O that  brave  Caesar! 

Cleopatra.  Be  choked  with  such  another  emphasis. 
Say,  the  brave  Antony. 

Charmian.  The  valiant  Caesar! 

Cleopatra.  By  Isis,  I will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 

If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men! 

Charmian.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

1 sing  but  after  you. 

Cleopatra.  My  salad  days, 

When  I was  green  in  judgment,— cold  in  blood, 

To  say,  as  I said  then!— But,  come,  away, 

Get  me  ink  and  paper;  he  shall  have  every  day 
A several  greeting,  or  I'll  unpeople  Egypt. 


248  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

We  learn  from  Plutarch,  that  it  was  a favorite 
amusement  with  Antony  and  Cleopatra  to  ramble 
through  the  streets  at  night,  and  bandy  ribald 
jests  with  the  populace  of  Alexandria.  From  the 
same  authority  we  know  that  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  live  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with 
their  attendants  and  the  companions  of  their 
revels.  To  these  traits  we  must  add  that,  with  all 
her  violence,  perverseness,  egotism,  and  caprice, 
Cleopatra  mingled  a capability  for  warm  affections 
and  kindly  feeling,  or,  rather,  what  we  should  call 
in  these  days  a constitutional  good-nature ; and 
was  lavishly  generous  to  her  favorites  and  depend- 
ents. These  characteristics  we  find  scattered 
through  the  play;  they  are  not  only  faithfully  ren- 
dered by  Shakspeare,  but  he  has  made  the  finest 
use  of  them  in  his  delineation  of  manners.  Hence 
the-  occasional  freedom  of  her  women  and  her 
attendants,  in  the  midst  of  their  fears  and  flat- 
teries, becomes  most  natural  and  consistent; 
hence,  too,  their  devoted  attachment  and  fidelity, 
proved  even  in  death.  But,  as  illustrative  of 
Cleopatra’s  disposition,  perhaps  the  finest  and 
most  characteristic  scene  in  the  whole  play  is  that 
in  which  the  messenger  arrives  from  Kome  with 
the  tidings  of  Antony’s  marriage  with  Octavia. 
She  perceives  at  once  with  quickness  that  all  is 
not  well,  and  she  hastens  to  anticipate  the  worst, 
that  she  may  have  the  pleasure  of  being  disap- 
pointed. Her  impatience  to  know  what  she  fears 
to  learn,  the  vivacity  with  which  she  gradually 
works  herself  up  into  a state  of  excitement,  and 
at  length  into  fury,  is  wrought  out  with  a force 
of  truth  which  makes  us  recoil — 


Cleopatra. 


249 


Cleopatra . Antony’s  dead!— If  thou  say  so,  villain, 

Thou  kill’st  thy  mistress;  but  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss;  a hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp’d,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Messenger.  First,  madam,  he’s  well. 

Cleopatra.  Why,  there’s  more  gold.  But,  sirrah,  mark! 
we  use 

To  say,  the  dead  are  well;  bring  it  to  that, 

The  gold  I give  thee  will  I melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

Messenger.  Good  madam,  hear  me! 

Cleopatra.  Well,  go  to,  I will. 

But  there’s  no  goodness  in  thy  face:  If  Antony 
Be  free,  and  healthful— so  tart  a favor 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings?  If  not  well, 

Thou  should’st  come  like  a fury  crown’d  with  snakes. 
Messenger.  Will’t  please  you  hear  me? 

Cleopatra.  I have  a mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou  speak’st. 
Yet,  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well, 

Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 

I’ll  set  thee  in  a shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Messenger.  Madam,  he’s  well. 

Cleopatra.  Well  said. 

Messenger.  And  friends  with  Caesar. 

Cleopatra.  Thou’rt  an  honest  man. 

Messenger.  Caesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  ever. 
Cleopatra.  Make  thee  a fortune  from  me. 

Messenger.  But  yet,  madam— 

Cleopatra.  I do  not  like  tut  yet — it  does  allay 
The  good  precedence.  Fie  upon  tut  yet. 

But  yet  is  as  a gaoler  to  bring  forth 

Some  monstrous  malefactor.  Pr’ythee,  friend, 

Pour  out  thy  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear, 

The  good  and  bad  together:  He’s  friends  with  Caesar, 
In  state  of  health,  thou  say’st;  and,  thou  say’st,  free. 

Messenger.  Free,  madam!  No,  I made  no  such  report; 
He’s  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleopatra.  For  what  good  turn? 

Messenger.  Madam,  he’s  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleopatra.  The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee! 

[ Strikes  him  down. 


250  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Messenger.  Good  madam,  patience. 

Cleopatra.  What  say  you?— Hence,  [ Strikes  him  again. 
Horrible  villain!  or  I’ll  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me;  I’ll  unhair  thine  head; 

Thou  shalt  be  whipp’d  with  wire,  and  stew’d  in  brine, 
Smarting  in  ling’ring  pickle. 

Messenger.  Gracious  madam! 

I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

Cleopatra.  Say  ’tis  not  so,  a province  I will  give  thee, 
And  make  thy  fortunes  proud;  the  blow  thou  hadst 
Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage; 

And  I will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Messenger.  He’s  married,  madam. 

Cleopatra.  Rogue,  thou  hast  liv’d  too  long. 

[ Draws  a dagger. 

Messenger.  Nay,  then  I’ll  run. 

What  mean  you,  madam?  I have  made  no  fault.  [Exit. 

Charmian.  Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself: 
The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleopatra.  Some  innocents  ’scape  not  the  thunderbolt. 
Melt  Egypt  into  Nile!  and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  to  serpents!  Call  the  slave  again; 

Though  I am  mad,  I will  not  bite  him.— Call! 

Charmian.  He  is  afeard  to  come. 

Cleopatra.  I will  not  hurt  him! — 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 

A meaner  than  myself. 

* * * * * * * 

Cleopatra.  In  praising  Antony  I have  disprais’d  Caesar. 
Charmian.  Many  times,  madam. 

Cleopatra.  I am  paid  for  ’t  now— 

Lead  me  from  hence. 

I faint;  O Iras,  Charmian— ’tis  no  matter; 

Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas;  bid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years, 

Her  inclination— let  him  not  leave  out 

The  color  of  her  hair.  Bring  me  word  quickly.— 

[Exit  Alexas. 

Let  him  forever  go— let  him  not— Charmian, 

Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a Gorgon, 

T’  other  way  he’s  a Mars.  Bid  you  Alexas  [To  Mardian. 
Bring  me  word  how  tall  she  is.  Pity  me,  Charmian, 

But  do  not  speak  to  me.  Lead  me  to  my  chamber. 


Cleopatra.  251 

I have  given  this  scene  entire  because  I know 
nothing  comparable  to  it.  The  pride  and  arro- 
gance of  the  Egyptian  queen,  the  blandishment 
of  the  woman,  tire  unexpected  but  natural  transi- 
tions of  temper  and  feeling,  the  contest  of  various 
passions,  and  at  length — when  the  wild  hurricane 
has  spent  its  fury — the  melting  into  tears,  faint- 
ness, and  languishment,  are  portrayed  with  the 
most  astonishing  power,  and  truth,  and  skill  in 
feminine  nature.  More  wonderful  still  is  the 
splendor  and  force  of  coloring  which  is  shed  over 
this  extraordinary  scene.  The  mere  idea  of  an 
angry  woman  beating  her  menial  presents  some- 
thing ridiculous  or  disgusting  to  the  mind;  in  a 
queen  or  a tragedy  heroine  it  is  still  more  indecor- 
ous;* yet  this  scene  is  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
vulgar  or  the  comic.  Cleopatra  seems  privileged 
to  “touch  the  brink  of  all  we  hate”  with  impunity. 
This  imperial  termagant,  this  “wrangling  queen, 
whom  everything  becomes,”  becomes  even  her 
fury.  We  know  not  by  what  strange  power  it  is, 
that,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  unruly  passions  and 
childish  caprices,  the  poetry  of  the  character  and 
the  fanciful  and  sparkling  grace  of  the  delinea- 
tion are  sustained  and  still  rule  in  the  imagina- 
tion; but  we  feel  that  it  is  so. 

I need  hardly  observe,  that  we  have  historical 
authority  for  the  excessive  violence  of  Cleopatra’s 
temper:  witness  the  story  of  her  boxing  the  ears 
of  her  treasurer,  in  presence  of  Octavius,  as  related 
by  Plutarch.  Shakspeare  has  made  a fine  use  of 

* The  well-known  violence  and  coarseness  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth’s manners,  in  which  she  was  imitated  by  the  women 
about  her,  may  in  Shakspeare’s  time  have  rendered  the 
image  of  a royal  virago  less  offensive  and  less  extraordinary. 


252  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

this  anecdote  also  towards  the  conclusion  of  the 
drama,  but  it  is  not  equal  in  power  to  this  scene 
with  the  messenger. 

The  man  is  afterwards  brought  back,  almost  by 
force  to  satisfy  Cleopatra’s  jealous  anxiety  by  a 
description  of  Octavia: — but  this  time,  made  wise 
by  experience,  he  takes  care  to  adapt  his  informa- 
tion to  the  humors  of  his  imperious  mistress,  and 
gives  her  a satirical  picture  of  her  rival.  The 
scene  which  follows,  in  which  Cleopatra — artful, 
acute,  and  penetrating  as  she  is — becomes  the 
dupe  of  her  feminine  spite  and  jealousy,  nay, 
assists  in  duping  herself;  and  after  having  cuffed 
the  messenger  for  telling  her  truths  which  are 
offensive,  rewards  him  for  the  falsehood  which 
flatters  her  weakness;  is  not  only  an  admirable  ex- 
hibition of  character,  but  a fine  moral  lesson. 

She  concludes,  after  dismissing  the  messenger 
with  gold  and  thanks — 


I repent  me  much 

That  so  I harried  him.  Why,  methinks,  by  him 
This  creature’s  no  such  thing. 

Charmian.  Nothing,  madam. 

Cleopatra.  The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and 
should  know. 


Do  we  not  fancy  Cleopatra  drawing  herself  up 
with  all  the  vain  consciousness  of  rank  and  beauty, 
as  she  pronounces  this  last  line?  and  is  not  this  the 
very  woman  who  celebrated  her  own  apotheosis, 
who  arrayed  herself  in  the  robe  and  diadem  of  the 
goddess  Isis,  and  could  find  no  titles  magnificent 
enough  for  her  children  but  those  of  the  S nn  and 
the  Moon? 


Cleopatra.  253 

The  despotism  and  insolence  of  her  temper  are 
touched  in  some  other  places  most  admirably. 
Thus,  when  she  is  told  that  the  Romans  libel  and 
abuse  her,  she  exclaims — 

Sink  Rome;  and  their  tongues  rot 
That  speak  against  us! 

And  when  one  of  her  attendants  observes,  that 
“Herod  of  Jewry  dared  not  look  upon  her  but 
when  she  were  well  pleased/’  she  immediately  re- 
plies, “That  Herod’s  head  I’ll  have.”* 

When  Proculeius  surprises  her  in  her  monu- 
ment, and  snatches  her  poniard  from  her,  terror 
and  fury,  pride,  passion,  and  disdain,  swell  in  her 
haughty  soul,  and  seem  to  shake  her  very  being — 

Cleopatra.  Where  art  thou,  death? 

Come  hither,  come!  come,  come,  and  take  a queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars! 

Proculeius.  O,  temperance,  lady! 

Cleopatra.  Sir,  I will  eat  no  meat;  I’ll  not  drink,  sir 
(If  idle  talk  will  once  be  necessary): 

I’ll  not  sleep  neither;  this  mortal  house  I’ll  ruin, 

Do  Caesar  what  he  can!  Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion’d  at  your  master’s  court, 

Nor  once  be  chastis’d  with  the  sober  eye 
Of  dull  Octavia.  Shall  they  hoist  me  up, 

And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 
Of  censuring  Rome?  Rather  a ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  unto  me!  Rather  on  Nilus’  mud 
Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorring!  Rather  make 
My  country’s  high  pyramides  my  gibbet, 

And  hang  me  up  in  chains! 

In  the  same  spirit  of  royal  bravado,  but  finer 
still,  apd  worked  up  with  a truly  Oriental  exu- 

* She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  See  the  Life  of  Antony 
in  Plutarch. 


254 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

berance  of  fancy  and  imagery,  is  her  famous  de- 
scription of  Antony,  addressed  to  Dolabella — 

Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of  me? 
Cleopatra.  I cannot  tell. 

Dolabella.  Assuredly,  you  know  me. 

Cleopatra.  No  matter,  sir,  what  I have  heard  or  known. 
You  laugh  when  boys,  or  women,  tell  their  dreams; 

Is’t  not  your  trick? 

Dolabella.  I understand  not,  madam. 

Cleopatra.  I dreamt  there  was — emperor  Antony; 

O,  such  another  sleep,  that  I might  see 
But  such  another  man! 

Dolabella.  If  it  might  please  you,— 

Cleopatra.  His  face  was  as  the  heavens;  and  therein 
stuck 

A sun,  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course,  and  lighted 
The  little  O,  the  earth. 

Dolabella.  Most  sovereign  creature. 

Cleopatra.  His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean;  his  rear’d  arm 
Crested  the  world;  his  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends. 

But  when  he  meant  to  quail  or  shake  the  orb, 

He  was  as  rattling  thunder.  For  his  bounty, 

There  was  no  winter  in’t;  an  autumn  ’twas, 

That  grew  the  more  by  reaping.  His  delights 
Were  dolphin-like;  they  show’d  his  back  above 
The  element  they  liv’d  in.  In  his  livery  * 

Walk’d  crowns  and  crownets;  realms  and  islands  were 
As  platesf  drop’d  from  his  pocket. 

Dolabella.  Cleopatra!— 

Cleopatra.  Think  you  there  was,  or  might  be,  such  a man 
As  this  I dreamt  of? 

Dolabella.  Gentle  madam,  no. 

Cleopatra.  You  lie,— up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods! 


There  was  no  room  left  in  this  amazing  picture 
for  the  display  of  that  passionate  maternal  tender- 

* 7.  e.y  retinue. 

t 7.  e.y  silver  coins,  from  the  Spanish  plata. 


Uieopatra.  255 

ness  which  was  a strong  and  redeeming  feature  in 
Cleopatra’s  historical  character;  but  it  is  not  left 
untouched;  for  when  she  is  imprecating  mischiefs 
on  herself  she  wishes,  as  the  last  and  worst  of  pos- 
sible evils,  that  “thunder  may  smite  Caesarion!” 

In  representing  the  mutual  passion  of  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  as  real  and  fervent,  Shakspeare  has 
adhered  to  the  truth  of  history  as  well  as  to 
general  nature.  On  Antony’s  side  it  is  a species 
of  infatuation,  a single  and  engrossing  feeling:  it 
is,  in  short,  the  love  of  a man  declined  in  years 
for  a woman  very  much  younger  than  himself, 
and  who  has  subjected  him  by  every  species  of 
female  enchantment.  In  Cleopatra  the  passion  is 
of  a mixed  nature,  made  up  of  real  attachment, 
combined  with  the  love  of  pleasure,  the  love  of 
power,  and  the  love  of  self.  Not  only  is  the 
character  most  complicated,  but  no  one  sentiment 
could  have  existed  pure  and  unvarying  in  such  a 
mind  as  hers:  her  passion  in  itself  is  true,  fixed  to 
one  centre;  but,  like  the  pennon  streaming  from 
the  mast,  it  flutters  and  veers  with  every  breath  of 
her  variable  temper:  yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her 
caprices,  follies,  and  even  vices,  womanly  feeling 
is  still  predominant  in  Cleopatra,  and  the  change 
which  takes  place  in  her  deportment  towards 
Antony,  when  their  evil  fortune  darkens  round 
them,  is  as  beautiful  and  interesting  in  itself  as 
it  is  striking  and  natural.  Instead  of  the  airy 
caprice  and  provoking  petulance  she  displays  in 
the  first  scenes,  we  have  a mixture  of  tenderness, 
and  artifice,  and  fear,  and  submissive  blandish- 
ment. Her  behavior,  for  instance,  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Actium,  when  she  quails  before  the  noble 


256  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  tender  rebuke  of  her  lover,  is  partly  female 
subtlety  and  partly  natural  feeling — 

Cleopatra.  O my  lord,  my  lord, 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails!  I little  thought 
You  would  have  follow’d. 

Antony.  Egypt,  thou  know’st  too  well, 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  th’  strings, 

And  thou  should’st  tow  me  after.  O’er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew’st;  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleopatra.  O,  my  pardon! 

Antony.  Now  I must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o’  the  world  play’d  as  I pleased, 
Making  and  marring  fortunes.  You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror,  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would. 

Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleopatra.  Pardon,  pardon ! 

Antony.  Fall  not  a tear,  I say;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  or  lost.  Give  me  a kiss; 

Even  this  repays  me. 

It  is  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  individual 
character,  that  Cleopatra,  alike  destitute  of  moral 
strength  and  physical  courage,  should  cower,  ter- 
rified and  subdued,  before  the  masculine  spirit  of 
her  lover,  when  once  she  has  fairly  roused  it. 
Thus  Tasso’s  Armida,  half-syren,  half-sorceress, 
in  the  moment  of  strong  feeling,  forgets  her  in- 
cantations, and  has  recourse  to  persuasion,  to 
prayers,  and  to  tears — 

Lascia  gl’  incanti,  e vuol  provar  se  vaga 
E supplice  belta  sig  miglior  maga. 


Though  the  poet  afterwards  gives  us  to  understand 


CLEOPATRA. 


Cleopatra.  257 

that  even  in  this  relinquishment  of  art  there  was 
a more  refined  artifice — 

Nella  doglia  amara 
Gia  tutte  non  oblia  l’arti  e iie  frodi. 

And  something  like  this  inspires  the  conduct  of 
Cleopatra  towards  Antony  in  his  fallen  fortunes. 
The  reader  should  refer  to  that  fine  scene  where 
Antony  surprises  Thyreus  kissing  her  hand,  “that 
kingly  seal  and  plight er  of  high  hearts,”  and  rages 
like  a thousand  hurricanes. 

The  character  of  Mark  Antony,  as  delineated  by 
Shakspeare,  reminds  me  of  the  Farnese  Hercules. 
There  is  an  ostentatious  display  of  power,  an  ex- 
aggerated grandeur,  a colossal  effect  in  the  whole 
conception,  sustained  throughout  in  the  pomp  of 
the  language,  which  seems,  as  it  flows  along,  to 
resound  with  the  clang  of  arms  and  the  music  of 
the  revel.  The  coarseness  and  violence  of  the  his- 
toric portrait  are  a little  kept  down;  but  every 
word  which  Antony  utters  is  characteristic  of  the 
arrogant  but  magnanimous  Eoman,  who  “with 
half  the  bulk  o’  the  world  play’d  as  he  pleased,” 
and  was  himself  the  sport  of  a host  of  mad  (and 
bad)  passions,  and  the  slave  of  a woman. 

History  is  followed  closely  in  all  the  details  of 
the  catastrophe,  and  there  is  something  wonder- 
fully grand  in  the  hurried  march  of  events  towards 
the  conclusion.  As  disasters  hem  her  round,  Cleo- 
patra gathers  up  her  faculties  to  meet  them,  not 
with  the  calm  fortitude  of  a great  soul,  but  the 
haughty,  tameless  spirit  of  a wilful  woman  un- 
used to  reverse  or  contradiction. 

Her  speech,  after  Antony  has  expired  in  her 


258 


Sfyakspeare’s  Heroines. 

arms,  I have  always  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  in  Shakspeare.  Cleopatra  is  not  a 
woman  to  grieve  silently.  The  contrast  between 
the  violence  of  her  passions  and  the  weakness  of 
her  sex,  between  her  regal  grandeur  and  her  excess 
of  misery,  her  impetuous,  unavailing  struggles 
with  the  fearful  destiny  which  has  compassed  her, 
and  the  mixture  of  wild  impatience  and  pathos  in 
her  agony,  are  really  magnificent.  She  faints  on 
the  body  of  Antony,  and  is  recalled  to  life  by  the 
cries  of  her  women — 

Iras.  Royal  Egypt— empress! 

Cleopatra.  No  more,  but  e’en  a woman;*  and  com- 
manded 

By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks 
And  does  the  meanest  chores.— It  were  for  me 
To  throw  ray  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods; 

To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs 
Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.  All’s  but  nought; 

Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 
Become  a dog  that’s  mad.  Then,  is  it  sin 
To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death, 

Ere  death  dare  come  to  us?  How  do  you,  women? 

What,  what?  good  cheer?  why,  how  now,  Charmian? 

XI y noble  girls!— ah  women,  women!  look, 

Our  lamp  is  spent,  it’s  out. 

We’ll  bury  him;  and  then,  what’s  brave,  what’s  noble, 
Let’s  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 

And  make  death  proud  to  take  us. 


But  although  Cleopatra  talks  of  dying  “after 
the  high  Boman  fashion,”  she  fears  what  she 
most  desires,  and  cannot  perform  with  simplicity 
what  costs  her  such  an  effort.  That  extreme 
physical  cowardice  which  was  so  strong  a trait  in 

* Cleopatra  replies  to  the  first  word  she  hears  on  recover- 
ing her  senses,  “No  more  an  empress , but  a mere  woman!’’ 


Cleopatra.  259 

her  historical  character,  which,  led  to  the  defeat 
of  Aetium,  which  made  her  delay  the  execution  of 
a fatal  resolve  till  she  had  “tried  conclusions 
infinite  of  easy  ways  to  die,”  Shakspeare  has  ren- 
dered with  the  finest  possible  effect,  and  in  a man- 
ner which  heightens  instead  of  diminishing  our 
respect  and  interest.  Timid  by  nature,  she  is  cour- 
ageous by  the  mere  force  of  will,  and  she  lashes 
herself  up  with  high-sounding  words  into  a kind 
of  false  daring.  ITer  lively  imagination  suggests 
every  incentive  which  can  spur  her  on  to  the  deed 
she  has  resolved,  yet  trembles  to  contemplate. 
She  pictures  to  herself  all  the  degradations  which 
must  attend  her  captivity;  and  let  it  be  observed, 
that  those  which  she  anticipates  are  precisely  such 
as  a vain,  luxurious,  and  haughty  woman  would 
especially  dread,  and  which  only  true  virtue  and 
magnanimity  could  despise.  Cleopatra  could  have 
endured  the  loss  of  freedom;  but  to  be  led  in  tri- 
umph through  the  streets  of  Rome  is  insufferable. 
She  could  stoop  to  Caesar  with  dissembling 
courtesy,  and  meet  duplicity  with  superior  art; 
but  “to  be  chastised”  by  the  scornful  or  upbraid- 
ing glance  of  the  injured  Octavia — “rather  a 
ditch  in  Egypt!” — 


If  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 

Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I am  safe: 

Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes 
And  still  conclusion,*  shall  acquire  no  honor 
Demuring  upon  me. 

Now,  Iras,  what  think’st  thou? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  be  shown 
In  Rome  as  well  as  I.  Mechanic  slaves, 

With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 

* /.  e.,  sedate  determination.— Johnson. 

I 


260  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Uplift  us  to  the  view;  in  their  thick  breaths, 

Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 

And  forc’d  to  drink  their  vapor. 

Iras.  The  gods  forbid. 

Cleopatra.  Nay,  ’tis  most  certain,  Iras.  Saucy  lictors 
Will  catch  at  us,  like  strumpets;  and  scald  rhymers 
Ballad  us  out  o’  tune.  The  quick  comedians 
Extemporarily  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels;  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness. 

She  then  calls  for  her  diadem,  her  robes  of  state, 
and  attires  herself  as  if  “again  for  Cydnus,  to  meet 
Mark  Antony.”  Coquette  to  the  last,  she  must 
make  Death  proud  to  take  her,  and  die,  “phoenix- 
like,” as  she  had  lived,  with  all  the  pomp  of  prep- 
aration— luxurious  in  her  despair. 

The  death  of  Lucretia,  of  Portia,  of  Arria,  and 
others  who  died  “after  the  high  Roman  fashion,” 
is  sublime  according  to  the  Pagan  ideas  of  virtue, 
and  yet  none  of  them  so  powerfully  affect  the 
imagination  as  the  catastrophe  of  Cleopatra.  The 
idea  of  this  frail,  timid,  wayward  woman  dying 
with  heroism,  from  the  mere  force  of  passion  and 
will,  takes  us  by  surprise.  The  Attic  elegance  of 
her  mind,  her  poetical  imagination,  the  pride  of 
beauty  and  royalty  predominating  to  the  last,  and 
the  sumptuous  and  picturesque  accompaniments 
with  which  she  surrounds  herself  in  death,  carry 
to  its  extreme  height  that  effect  of  contrast  which 
prevails  through  her  life  and  character.  Ho  arts, 
no  invention,  could  add  to  the  real  circumstances 
of  Cleopatra’s  closing  scene.  Shakspeare  has 
shown  profound  judgment  and  feeling  in  adhering 
closely  to  the  classical  authorities;  and  to  say  that 


Cleopatra.  261 

the  language  and  sentiments  worthily  fill  up  the 
outline  is  the  most  magnificent  praise  that  can  he 
given.  The  magical  play  of  fancy  and  the  over- 
powering fascination  of  the  character  are  kept 
up  to  the  last:  and  when  Cleopatra,  on  applying 
the  asp,  silences  the  lamentations  of  her  women — 


Peace!  peace! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep?— 


These  few  words — the  contrast  between  the  tender 
beauty  of  the  image  and  the  horror  of  the  situation 
— produce  an  effect  more  intensely  mournful  than 
all  the  ranting  in  the  world.  The  generous  devo- 
tion of  her  women  adds  the  moral  charm  which 
alone  was  wanting:  and  when  Octavius  hurries  in 
too  late  to  save  his  victim,  and  exclaims,  when 
gazing  on  her — 

She  looks  like  sleep — 

As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace— 


the  image  of  her  beauty  and  her  irresistible  arts: 
triumphant  even  in  death,  is  at  once  brought 
before  us,  and  one  masterly  and  comprehensive 
stroke  consummates  this  most  wonderful,  most, 
dazzling  delineation. 

I am  not  here  the  apologist  of  Cleopatra’s  his- 
torical character,  nor  of  such  women  as  resemble 
her:  I am  considering  her  merely  as  a dramatic 
portrait  of  astonishing  beauty,  spirit,  and  origi- 
nality. She  has  furnished  the  subject  of  two 
Latin,  sixteen  French,  six  English,  and  at  least 


262  Shakspcare’s  Heroines. 

four  Italian  tragedies;*  yet  Shakspeare  alone  has 
availed  himself  of  all  the  interest  of  the  story- 
without  falsifying  the  character.  He  alone  has 
dared  to  exhibit  the  Egyptian  queen  with  all 
her  greatness  and  all  her  littleness — all  her 
frailties  of  temper,  all  her  paltry  arts  and 
disssolute  passions,  yet  preserved  the  dramatic 
propriety  and  poetical  coloring  of  the  character, 
and  awakened  our  pity  for  fallen  grandeur  with- 
out once  beguiling  us  into  sympathy  with  guilt 
and  error.  Corneille  has  represented  Cleopatra  as 
a model  of  chaste  propriety,  magnanimity,  con- 
stancy, and  every  female  virtue;  and  the  effect  is 
almost  ludicrous.  In  our  own  language,  we  have 
two  very  fine  tragedies  on  the  story  of  Cleopatra: 
in  that  of  Dryden,  which  is  in  truth  a noble  poem, 
and  which  he  himself  considered  his  masterpiece, 
Cleopatra  is  a mere  commonplace  “all  for  love” 
heroine,  full  of  constancy  and  fine  sentiments. 
For  instance — 

My  love’s  so  true 

That  I can  neither  hide  it  where  it  is, 

Nor  show  it  where  it  is  not.  Nature  meant  me 
A wife — a silly,  harmless,  household  dove, 

Fond  without  art,  and  kind  without  deceit. 

But  Fortune,  that  has  made  a mistress  of  me, 

Has  thrust  me  out  to  the  wild  world,  unfurnished 
Of  falsehood  to  be  happy. 


* The  “Cleopatra”  of  Jodelle  was  the  first  regular  French 
tragedy;  the  last  French  tragedy  on  the  same  subject  was 
the  “Cleopatre”  of  Marmontel.  For  the  representation  of 
this  tragedy,  Vaucanson,  the  celebrated  French  mechanist, 
invented  an  automatum  asp,  which  crawled  and  hissed  to 
the  life.— to  the  great  delight  of  the  Parisians.  But  it  ap- 
pears that  neither  Vaucanson’s  asp.  nor  Clniron.  could  save 
“Cleopatre”  from  a deserved  fate.  Of  the  English  tragedies, 
one  was  written  by  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  ^he  sister  of 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  and  is,  I believe,  the  first  instance  in  our 
language  of  original  dramatic  writing  by  a female. 


Cleopatra.  263 

Is  this  Antony’s  Cleopatra — the  Circe  of  the 
Nile — the  Venus  of  Cydnus?  She  never  uttered 
anything  half  so  mawkish  in  her  life. 

In  Fletcher’s  “False  One/’  Cleopatra  is  repre- 
sented at  an  earlier  period  of  her  history:  and  to 
give  an  idea  of  the  aspect  under  which  the  charac- 
ter is  exhibited  (and  it  does  not  vary  throughout 
the  play)  I shall  give  one  scene:  if  it  be  considered 
out  of  place,  its  extreme  beauty  will  form  its  best 
apology. 

Ptolemy  and  his  council  having  exhibited  to 
Cassar  all  the  royal  treasures  in  Egypt,  he  is  so 
astonished  and  dazzled  at  the  view  of  the  accumu- 
lated wealth  that  he  forgets  the  presence  of  Cleo- 
patra, and  treats  her  with  negligence.  The  follow- 
ing scene  between  her  and  her  sister  Arsinoe 
occurs  immediately  afterwards — 

Arsinoe.  You’re  so  impatient! 

Cleopatra.  Have  I not  cause? 

Women  of  common  beauties  and  low  births, 

When  they  are  slighted,  are  allowed  their  angers— 

Why  should  not  I,  a princess,  make  him  know 
The  baseness  of  his  usage? 

Arsinoe.  Yes,  ’tis  fit: 

But  then  again,  you  know  what  man— 

Cleopatra.  He’s  no  man! 

The  shadow  of  a greatness  hangs  upon  him, 

And  not  the  virtue;  he  is  no  conqueror, 

Has  suffered  under  the  base  dross  of  nature; 

Poorly  delivered  up  his  power  to  wealth. 

The  god  of  bed-rid  men  taught  his  eyes  treason: 

Against  the  truth  of  love  he  has  rais’d  rebellion— 

Defied  his  holy  flames. 

Eros.  He  will  fall  back  again, 

And  satisfy  your  grace. 

Cleopatra.  Had  I been  old, 

Or  blasted  in  my  bud,  he  might  have  show’d 
Some  shadow  of  dislike;  but  to  prefer 


264 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

The  lustre  of  a little  trash,  Arsinoe, 

And  the  poor  glow-worm  light  of  some  faint  jewels 
Before  the  light  of  love  and  soul  of  bqauty— 

0 how  it  vexes  me!  He  is  no  soldier: 

All  honorable  soldiers  are  Love’s  servants. 

He  is  a merchant,  a mere  wandering  merchant, 

Servile  to  gain;  he  trades  for  poor  commodities, 

And  makes  his  conquests  thefts!  Some  fortunate  cap- 
tains 

That  quarter  with  him,  and  are  truly  valiant, 

Have  flung  the  name  of  “Happy  Caesar”  on  him; 
Himself  ne’er  won  it.  He’s  so  base  and  covetous, 

He’ll  sell  his  sword  for  gold. 

Arsinoe.  This  is  too  bitter. 

Cleopatra.  O,  I could  curse  myself,  that  was  so  foolish. 
So  fondly  childish,  to  believe  his  tongue— 

His  promising  tongue— ere  I could  catch  his  temper. 

I’d  trash  enough  to  have  cloy’d  his  eyes  withal 
(His  covetous  eyes),  such  as  I scorn  to  tread  on, 

Richer  than  e’er  he  saw  yet,  and  more  tempting; 

Had  I known  he’d  stoop’d  at  that,  I’d  sav’d  mine  honor— 

1 had  been  happy  still!  But  let  him  take  it. 

And  let  him  brag  how  poorly  I’m  rewarded; 

Let  him  go  conquer  still  weak  wretched  ladies; 

Love  has  his  angry  quiver  too,  his  deadly, 

And  when  he  finds  scorn,  armed  at  the  strongest— 

I am  a fool  to  fret  thus  for  a fool,— 

An  old  blind  fool,  too!  I lose  my  health;  I will  not, 

I will  not  cry;  I will  not  honor  him 

With  tears  diviner  than  the  gods  he  worships; 

I will  not  take  the  pains  to  curse  a poor  thing. 

Eros.  Do  not;  you  shall  not  need. 

Cleopatra.  Would  I wrere  a prisoner 

To  one  I hate,  that  I might  anger  him! 

I will  love  any  man  to  break  the  heart  of  him! 

Any  that  has  the  heart  and  will  to  kill  him! 

Arsinoe.  Take  some  fair  truce. 

Cleopatra.  I will  go  study  mischief, 

And  put  a look  on,  armed  with  all  my  cunnings, 

Shall  meet  him  like  a basilisk,  and  strike  him. 

Love!  put  destroying  flame  into  mine  eyes, 

Into  my  smiles  deceits,  that  I may  torture  him— 

That  I may  make  him  love  to  death,  and  laugh  at  him! 


Cleopatra.  265 

Enter  Apollodorus. 

Apollodorus.  Ceesar  commends  his  service  to  your  grace. 
Cleopatra . His  service?  What’s  his  service? 

Eros.  Pray  you,  be  patient: 

The  noble  Caesar  loves  still. 

Cleopatra.  What’s  his  will? 

Apollodorus.  He  craves  access  unto  your  highness. 
Cleopatra.  No;— 

Say  no;  I will  have  none  to  trouble  me. 

Apollodorus.  Good  sister!— 

Cleopatra.  None,  I say;  I will  be  private. 

Would  thou  hadst  flung  me  into  Nilus,  keeper, 

When  first  thou  gav’st  consent  to  bring  my  body 
To  this  unthankful  Caesar! 

Apollodorus.  ’Twas  your  will,  madam; 

Nay  more,  your  charge  upon  me,  as  I honor’d  you. 

You  know  what  danger  I endur’d. 

Cleopatra.  Take  this,  [Giving  a jewel . 

And  carry  it  to  that  lordly  Caesar  sent  thee; 

There’s  a new  love,  a handsome  one,  a rich  one,— 

One  that  will  hug  his  mind;  bid  him  make  love  to  it; 

Tell  the  ambitious  broker  this  will  suffer— 

Enter  Caesar. 

Apollodorus.  He  enters. 

Cleopatra.  How ! 

Caesar.  I do  not  use  to  wait,  lady; 

Where  I am,  all  the  doors  are  free  and  open. 

Cleopatra.  I guess  so  by  your  rudeness. 

Caesar.  You’re  not  angry? 

Things  of  your  tender  mold  should  be  most  gentle. 

Why  do  you  frown?  Good  gods,  what  a set  anger 
Have  you  forced  into  your  face!  Come,  I must  temper 
you. 

What  a coy  smile  was  there,  and  a disdainful! 

How  like  an  ominous  flash  it  broke  out  from  you! 

Defend  me,  love!  Sweet,  who  has  angered  you? 

Cleopatra.  Show  him  a glass!  That  false  face  has 
betray’d  me— 

That  base  heart  wrong’d  me! 

Caesar.  Be  more  sweetly  angry. 

I wronged  you,  fair? 

Cleopatra.  Away  with  your  foul  flatteries; 


266  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

They  are  too  gross!  But  that  I dare  be  angry, 

And  with  as  great  a g@d  as  Caesar  is, 

To  show  how  poorly  I respect  his  memory, 

I would  not  speak  to  you. 

Caesar.  Pray  you,  undo  this  riddle. 

And  tell  me  how  I’ve  vexed  you. 

Cleopatra.  Let  me  think  first, 

Whether  I may  put  on  a patience 

That  will  with  honor  suffer  me.  Know  I hate  you; 

Let  that  begin  the  story.  Now  I’ll  tell  you. 

Caesar.  But  do  it  mildly;  in  a noble  lady, 

Softness  of  spirit,  and  a sober  nature, 

That  moves  like  summer  winds,  cool,  and  blows  sweet- 
ness, 

Shows  blessed,  like  herself. 

Cleopatra.  And  that  great  blessedness 

You  first  reap’d  of  me,  till  you  taught  my  nature, 

Like  a rude  storm,  to  talk  aloud  and  thunder, 

Sleep  was  not  gentler  than  my  soul,  and  stiller. 

You  had  the  spring  of  my  affections, 

And  my  fair  fruits  I gave  you  leave  to  taste  of; 

You  must  expect  the  winter  of  mine  anger. 

You  flung  me  off— before  the  court  disgraced  me— 

When  in  the  pride  I appear’d  of  all  my  beauty — 
Appear’d  your  mistress;  took  unto  your  eyes 
The  common  strumpet,  love  of  hated  lucre, — 

Courted  with  covetous  heart  the  slave  of  nature,— 

Gave  all  your  thoughts  to  gold,  that  men  of  glory. 

And  minds  adorn’d  with  noble  love,  would  kick  at! 
Soldiers  of  royal  mark  scorn  such  base  purchase; 

Beauty  and  honor  are  the  marks  they  shoot  at. 

I spake  to  you  then;  I courted  you,  and  woo’d  you; 
Called  you  dear  Caesar,  hung  about  you  tenderly; 

Was  proud  to  appear  your  friend— 

Caesar.  You  have  mistaken  me. 

Cleopatra.  But  neither  eye,  nor  favor,  not  a smile 
WTas  I bless’d  back  withal,  but  shook  off  rudely; 

And  as  you  had  been  sold  to  sordid  infamy, 

You  fell  before  the  images  of  treasure, 

And  in  your  soul  you  worship’d.  I stood  slighted, 
Forgotten,  and  contemn’d;  my  soft  embraces, 

And  those  sweet  kisses,  which  you  call’d  Elysium, 

As  letters  writ  in  sand,  no  more  remember’d; 


Cleopatra.  267 

The  name  and  glory  of  your  Cleopatra 
Laugh’d  at,  and  made  a story  to  your  captains! 

Shall  I endure? 

Caesar.  You  are  deceived  in  all  this, 

Upon  my  life,  you  are;  ’ tis  your  much  tenderness. 

Cleopatra.  No,  no;  I love  not  that  way;  you  are  cozen’d; 

I love  with  as  much  ambition  as  a conqueror, 

And  where  I love  will  triumph! 

Caesar.  So  you  shall: 

My  heart  shall  be  the  chariot  that  shall  bear  you; 

All  I have  won  shall  wait  upon  you.  By  the  gods, 

The  bravery  of  this  woman’s  mind  has  fir’d  me! 

Dear  mistress,  shall  I but  this  once — 

Cleopatra.  How!  Caesar! 

Have  I let  slip  a second  vanity 
That  gives  thee  hope? 

Caesar.  You  shall  be  absolute. 

And  reign  alone  as  queen;  you  shall  be  anything. 

Cleopatra.  Farewell,  unthankful! 

Caesar.  Stay! 

Cleopatra.  I will  not. 

Caesar.  I command. 

Cleopatra.  Command,  and  go  without,  sir; 

I do  command  thee  be  my  slave  forever, 

And  vex,  while  I laugh  at  thee! 

Caesar.  Thus  low,  beauty—  [Ee  kneels. 

Cleopatra.  It  is  too  late;  when  I have  found  thee 
absolute, 

The  man  that  fame  reports  thee,  and  to  me, 

May  be  I shall  think  better.  Farewell,  conqueror.  [Exit. 

Now  this  is  magnificent  poetry,  but  this  is  not 
Cleopatra,  this  is  not  “the  gipsy  queen/’  The 
sentiment  here  is  too  profound,  the  majesty  too 
real  and  too  lofty.  Cleopatra  could  be  great  by 
fits  and  starts,  but  never  sustained  her  dignity 
upon  so  high  a tone  for  ten  minutes  together. 
The  Cleopatra  of  Fletcher  reminds  us  of  the  an- 
tique colossal  statue  of  her  in  the  Vatican,  all 
grandeur  and  grace.  Cleopatra  in  Dryden’s 


268  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

tragedy  is  like  Guido's  dying  Cleopatra  in  the 
Pitti  palace,  tenderly  beautiful.  Shakspeare’s 
Cleopatra  is  like  one  of  those  graceful  and  fan- 
tastic pieces  of  antique  Arabesque,  in  which  all 
anomalous  shapes  and  impossible  and  wild  com- 
binations of  form  are  woven  together  in  regular 
confusion  and  harmonious  discord;  and  such  we 
have  reason  to  believe  was  the  living  woman  her- 
self, when  she  existed  upon  this  earth. 


OCTAVIA. 


IDO  not  understand  the  observation  of  a late 
critic,  that  in  this  play  “Octavia  is  only  a dull 
foil  to  Cleopatra."  Cleopatra  requires  no  foil, 
and  Octavia  is  not  dull,  though  in  a moment  of 
jealous  spleen  her  accomplished  rival  gives  her 
that  epithet.*  It  is  possible  that  her  beautiful 
character,  if  brought  more  forward  and  colored 
up  to  the  historic  portrait,  would  still  be  eclipsed 
by  the  dazzling  splendor  of  Cleopatra’s;  for  so  I 
have  seen  a flight  of  fireworks  blot  out  for  awhile 
the  silver  moon  and  ever-burning  stars.  But  here, 
the  subject  of  the  drama  being  the  love  of  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  Octavia  is  very  properly  kept  in  the 
background,  and  far  from  any  competition  with 
her  rival;  the  interest  would  otherwise  have  been 
unpleasantly  divided,  or  rather  Cleopatra  herself 
must  have  served  but  as  a foil  to  the  tender,  virtu- 
ous, dignified,  and  generous  Octavia,  the  very 
beau  ideal  of  a noble  Roman  lady — 

Admired  Octavia,  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  husband  than  the  best  of  men; 

Whose  virtue  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter. 


Dryden  has  committed  a great  mistake  in  bring- 
ing Octavia  and  her  children  on  the  scene,  and  in 
immediate  contact  with  Cleopatra.  To  have  thus 

* “The  sober  eye  of  dull  Octavia.”  Act  V,  scene  2. 

269 


270  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

violated  the  truth  of  history*  might  have  been 
excusable,  but  to  sacrifice  the  truth  of  nature  and 
dramatic  propriety  to  produce  a mere  stage  effect 
was  unpardonable.  In  order  to  preserve  the  unity 
of  interest,  he  has  falsified  the  character  of 
Octavia  as  well  as  that  of  Cleopatra;!  he  has  pre- 
sented us  with  a regular  scolding-match  between 
the  rivals,  in  which  they  come  sweeping  up  to 
each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the  stage,  with 
their  respective  trains,  like  two  pea-hens,  in  a pas- 
sion. Shakspeare  would  no  more  have  brought 
his  captivating,  brilliant,  but  meretricious  Cleo- 
patra into  immediate  comparison  with  the  noble 
and  chaste  simplicity  of  Octavia,  than  a connois- 
seur in  art  would  have  placed  Canova’s  Dan- 
satrice,  beautiful  as  it  is,  beside  the  Athenian  Mel- 
pomene, or  the  Vestal  of  the  Capitol. 

The  character  of  Octavia  is  merely  indicated  in 
a few  touches,  but  every  stroke  tells.  We  see  her 
with  “downcast  eyes  sedate  and  sweet,  and  looks 
demure” — with  her  modest  tenderness  and  digni- 
fied submission — the  very  antipodes  of  her  rival! 
Nor  should  we  forget  that  she  has  furnished  one 
of  the  most  graceful  similes  in  the  whole  compass 


* Octavia  was  never  in  Egypt. 

t “The  Octavia  of  Dryden  is  a much  more  important  per- 
sonage than  in  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra  of  Shakspeare. 
She  is,  however,  more  cold  and  unamiable,  for  in  the  very 
short  scenes  in  which  the  Octavia  of  Shakspeare  is  intro- 
duced. she  is  placed  in  rather  an  interesting  point  of  view. 
But  Dryden  has  himself  informed  us  that  he  was  appre- 
hensive that  the  justice  of  a wife’s  claim  would  draw  the 
audience  to  her  side,  and  lessen  their  interest  in  the  lover 
and  the  mistress.  He  seems,  accordingly,  to  have  studiously 
lowered  the  character  of  the  injured  Octavia,  who.  in  her 
conduct  to  her  husband,  shows  much  duty  and  little  love.” 
Sir  W.  Scott  (in  the  same  fine  piece  of  criticism  prefixed  to 
Dr.vden’s  “All  for  Love”)  gives  the  preference  to  Shall- 
speare’s  Cleopatra. 


Octavia.  271 

of  poetry,  where  her  soft  equanimity  in  the  midst 
of  grief  is  compared  to — 

The  swan’s  down  feather 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  flood  of  tide, 

And  neither  way  inclines. 

The  fear  which  seems  to  haunt  the  mind  of 
Cleopatra  lest  she  should  be  “chastised  by  the 
sober  eye”  of  Octavia,  is  exceedingly  characteristic 
of  the  two  women;  it  betrays  the  jealous  pride 
of  her  who  was  conscious  that  she  had  forfeited 
all  real  claim  to  respect;  and  it  places  Octavia  be- 
fore us  in  all  the  majesty  of  that  virtue  which 
could  strike  a kind  of  envying  and  remorseful 
awe  even  into  the  bosom  of  Cleopatra.  What 
would  she  have  thought  and  felt,  had  some 
soothsayer  foretold  to  her  the  fate  of  her  own 
children,  whom  she  so  tenderly  loved?  Captives,, 
and  exposed  to  the  rage  of  the  Boman  populace, 
they  owed  their  existence  \o  the  generous,  admir- 
able Octavia,  in  whose  mind  there  entered  no  par- 
ticle of  littleness.  She  received  into  her  house  the 
children  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  educated  them 
with  her  own,  treated  them  with  truly  maternal 
tenderness,  and  married  them  nobly. 

Lastly,  to  complete  the  contrast,  the  death  of 
Octavia  should  be  put  in  comparison  with  that  of 
Cleopatra. 

After  spending  several  years  in  dignified  retire- 
ment, respected  as  the  sister  of  Augustus,  but 
more  for  her  own  virtues,  Octavia  lost  her  eldest 
son  Marcellus,  who  was  expressively  called  the 
“Hope  of  Borne.”  Her  fortitude  gave  way  under 
this  blow,  and  she  fell  into  a deep  melancholy. 


272  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

which  gradually  wasted  her  health.  While  she 
was  thus  declining  into  death  occurred  that  beau- 
tiful scene,  which  has  never  yet,  I believe,  been 
made  the  subject  of  a picture,  but  should  certainly 
be  added  to  my  gallery  (if  I had  one),  and  I would 
hang  it  opposite  to  the  dying  Cleopatra.  Virgil 
was  commanded  by  Augustus  to  read  aloud  to  his 
sister  that  book  of  the  “HDneid,”  in  which  he  had 
commemorated  the  virtues  and  early  death  of  the 
young  Marcellus.  When  he  came  to  the  lines — 

This  youth,  the  blissful  vision  of  a day, 

Shall  just  be  shown  on  earth,  then  snatch’d  away,  etc. 

the  mother  covered  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 
But  when  Virgil  mentioned  her  son  by  name  (“Tu 
Marcellus  eris”),  which  he  had  artfully  deferred 
till  the  concluding  lines,  Octavia,  unable  to  con- 
trol her  agitation,  fainted  away.  She  afterwards, 
with  a magnificent  spirit,  ordered  the  poet  a 
gratuity  of  ten  thousand  sesterces  for  each  line 
of  the  panegyric.*  It  is  probable  that  the  agita- 
tion she  suffered  on  this  occasion  hastened  the 
effects  of  her  disorder;  for  she  died  soon  after  (of 
grief,  says  the  historian),  having  survived  Antony 
about  twenty  years. 

* In  all,  about  two  thousand  pounds. 


VOLUMNIA. 


OCTAVIA,  however,  is  only  a beautiful 
sketch,  while  in  Volumnia  Shakspeare  has 
given  us  the  portrait  of  a Eoman  matron, 
conceived  in  the  true  antique  spirit,  and  finished 
in  every  part.  Although  Coriolanus  is  the  hero  of 
the  play,  yet  much  of  the  interest  of  the  action 
and  the  final  catastrophe  turn  upon  the  character 
of  his  mother,  Yolumnia,  and  the  power  she 
exercised  over  his  mind,  by  which,  according 
of  his  mother,  Volumnia,  and  the  power  she  ex- 
ercised over  his  mother,  Volumnia,  and  the  power 
she  exercised  over  his  mind,  by  which,  according 
to  the  story,  “she  saved  Rome  and  lost  her  son.” 
Her  lofty  patriotism,  her  patrician  haughtiness, 
her  maternal  pride,  her  eloquence  and  her  tow- 
ering spirit,  are  exhibited  with  the  utmost  power 
of  effect;  yet  the  truth  of  female  nature  is  beau- 
tifully preserved,  and  the  portrait,  with  all  its 
vigor,  is  without  harshness. 

I shall  begin  by  illustrating  the  relative  posi- 
tion and  feelings  of  the  mother  and  son;  as  these 
are  of  the  greatest  importance  in  the  action  of  the 
drama,  and  consequently  most  prominent  in  the 
characters.  Though  Yolumnia  is  a Roman  matron, 
and  though  her  country  owes  its  salvation  to  her, 
it  is  clear  that  her  maternal  pride  and  affection 
are  stronger  even  than  her  patriotism.  Thus, 
when  her  son  is  exiled  she  bursts  into  an  impreca- 
tion against  Rome  and  its  citizens — 

273 


274  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Now  the  red  pestilence  strike  all  trades  in  Rome, 

And  occupations  perish! 

Here  we  have  the  impulses  of  individual  and  femi- 
nine nature  overpowering  all  national  and  habitual 
influences.  Yolumnia  would  never  have  ex- 
claimed like  the  Spartan  mother  of  her  dead  son, 
“Sparta  has  many  others  as  brave  as  he!”  but  in 
a far  different  spirit  she  says  to  the  Eomans — 

Ere  you  go,  hear  this: 

As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 

The  meanest  house  in  Rome,  so  far,  my  son, 

Whom  you  have  banish’d,  does  exceed  you  all. 

In  the  very  first  scene,  and  before  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  principal  personages,  one  citizen 
observes  to  another  that  the  military  exploits  of 
Marcius  were  performed  not  so  much  for  his  coun- 
try’s sake  “as  to  please  his  mother.”  By  this  ad- 
mirable stroke  of  art,  introduced  with  such  sim- 
plicity of  effect,  our  attention  is  aroused,  and  we 
are  prepared  in  the  very  outset  of  the  piece  for  the 
important  part  assigned  to  Yolumnia,  and  for  her 
share  in  producing  the  catastrophe. 

In  the  first  act  we  have  a very  graceful  scene, 
in  which  the  two  Roman  ladies,  the  wife  and 
mother  of  Coriolanus,  are  discovered  at  their 
needlework,  conversing  on  his  absence  and  danger, 
and  are  visited  by  Valeria — 

The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 

The  moon  of  Rome;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 

That’s  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 

And  hangs  on  Dian’s  temple! 

Over  this  little  scene  Shakspeare,  without  any  dis- 
play of  learning,  has  breathed  the  very  spirit  of 


Volumnia. 


275 


classical  antiquity.  The  haughty  temper  of  Vol- 
umnia, her  admiration  of  the  valor  and  high  hear- 
ing of  her  son,  and  her  proud  but  unselfish  love 
for  him,  are  finely  contrasted  with  the  modest 
sweetness,  the  conjugal  tenderness,  and  the  fond 
solicitude  of  his  wife  Virgilia. 

Volumnia.  When  yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied,  and  the 
only  son  of  my  womb;  when  youth  with  comliness  pluck’d 
all  gaze  his  way;  when,  for  a day  of  king’s  entreaties,  a 
mother  should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding;  I— 
considering  how  honor  would  become  such  a person,  that  it 
was  no  better  than  picture-like  to  hang  by  the  wall  if  renown 
made  it  not  stir,— was  pleased  to  let  him  seek  danger  where 
he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a cruel  war  I sent  him,  from 
whence  he  returned,  his  brows  bound  with  oak.  I tell  thee, 
daughter— I sprang  not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing  he  was 
a man-child,  than  now  in  first  seeing  he  had  proved  himself 
a man. 

Virgilia.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam,  how 
then? 

Volumnia.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been  my 
son;  I therein  would  have  found  issue.  Hear  me  profess 
sincerely;  had  I a dozen  sons,  each  in  my  love  alike,  and 
none  less  dear  than  thine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I had  rather 
had  eleven  die  nobly  for  their  country  than  one  voluptuously 
surfeit  out  of  action— 

Enter  a Gentlewoman. 

Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come  to  visit  you. 

Virgilia.  ’Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire  myself. 

Volumnia.  Indeed,  you  shall  not. 

Methinks,  I hear  hither  your  husband’s  drum; 

See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair; 

As  children  from  a bear,  the  Volsces  shunning  him, 
Methinks,  I see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus, 

“Come  on,  you  cowards!  you  wTere  got  in  fear, 

Though  you  were  born  in  Rome.”  His  bloody  brow 
With  his  mail’d  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes, 

Like  to  a harvest-man,  that’s  task’d  to  mow 
O’er  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

Virgilia.  His  bloody  brow!  O Jupiter,  no  blood! 


276  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Volumnia.  Away,  you  fool!  it  more  becomes  a man 
Than  gilt  his  trophy.  The  breasts  of  Hecuba, 

When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look’d  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector’s  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords  contemning.— Tell  Valeria 
We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [Exit  Gent. 

Virgilia.  Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius! 

Volumnia.  He’ll  beat  Aufidius’  head  below  his  knee, 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 


This  distinction  between  the  two  females  is  as 
interesting  and  beautiful  as  it  is  well  sustained. 
Thus,  when  the  victory  of  Coriolanus  is  pro- 
claimed, Menenius  asks,  “Is  he  wounded?” 


Virgilia . O!  no,  no,  no! 

Volumnia . O!  he  is  wounded,  I thank  the  gods  for’t. 

And  when  he  returns  victorious  from  the  wars,  his 
high-spirited  mother  receives  him  with  blessings 
and  applause1 — his  gentle  wife  with  “gracious 
silence”  and  with  tears. 

The  resemblance  of  temper  in  the  mother  and 
the  son,  modified  as  it  is  by  the  difference  of  sex 
and  by  her  greater  age  and  experience,  is  exhibited 
with  admirable  truth.  Volumnia,  with  all  her 
pride  and  spirit,  has  some  prudence  and  self-com- 
mand: in  her  language  and  deportment  all  is  ma- 
tured and  matronly.  The  dignified  tone  of 
authority  she  assumes  towards  her  son,  when 
checking  his  headlong  impetuosity,  her  respect 
and  admiration  for  his  noble  qualities,  and  her 
strong  sympathy  even  with  the  feelings  she  com- 
bats, are  all  displayed  in  the  scene  in  which  she 
prevails  on  him  to  soothe  the  incensed  plebeians-— 


Volumnia. 


277 


Volumnia.  Pray  be  counsel’d: 

I have  a heart  as  little  apt  as  yours,— 

But  yet  a brain,  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

Menenius.  Well  said,  noble  woman: 

Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o’  the  time  craves  it  as  physic 
For  the  whole  state,  I would  put  mine  armor  on, 

Which  I can  scarcely  bear. 

Goriolanus.  What  must  I do? 

Menenius.  Return  to  the  tribunes. 

Coriolanus.  Well, 

W7hat  then?  -what  then? 

Menenius.  Repent  what  you  have  spoke. 

Coriolanus.  For  them?  I cannot  do  it  to  the  gods; 
Must  I then  do’t  to  them? 

Volumnia.  You  are  too  absolute; 

Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble, 

But  when  extremities  speak. 

******* 

I pr’ythee  now,  my  son, 
Go  to  them,  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand; 

And  thus  far  having  stretch’d  it  (here  be  with  them) 
Thy  knee  bussing  the  stones  (for  in  such  business 
Action  is  eloquence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  ears),  waving  thy  head, 

Which  often— thus— correcting  thy  stout  heart,  * 

Now  humble,  as  the  ripest  mulberry, 

That  will  not  hold  the  handling:  Or,  say  to  them, 

Thou  art  their  soldier,  and  being  bred  in  broils, 

Has  not  the  soft  way,  which,  thou  dost  confess, 

Were  fit  for  thee  to  use,  as  they  do  claim, 

In  asking  their  good  loves;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsooth,  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou  hast  power,  and  person. 

Menenius.  This  but  done, 

Even  as  she  speaks,  why,  all  their  hearts  were  yours: 
For  they  have  pardons,  being  ask’d,  as  free 
As  words  to  little  purpose. 

Volumnia.  Pr’ythee  now, 

Go,  and  be  rul’d:  although  I know,  thou  hadst  rather 
Follow  thine  enemy  in  a fiery  gulf 
Than  flatter  him  in  a bower. 


278 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 


******* 

Menenius.  Only  fair  speech. 

Cominius.  I think  ’twill  serve,  if  he 

Can  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 

Volumnia.  He  must,  and  will:— 

Pr’thee  now,  say  you  will,  and  go  about  it. 

Coriolanus.  Must  I go  show  them  my  unbarb’d  sconce? 
Must  I 

With  my  base  tongue  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A lie,  that  it  must  bear?  Well,  I will  do’t: 

Yet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 

This  mold  of  Marcius,  they  to  dust  should  grind  it, 

And  throw  it  against  the  wind.— To  the  market-place: 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a part,  which  never 
I shall  discharge  to  the  life. 

Volumnia.  I pr’ythee  now,  sweet  son;  as  thou  hast  said. 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a soldier,  so, 

To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

Coriolanus.  Well,  I must  do’t; 

Away,  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 
Some  harlot’s  spirit! 

******* 

I will  not  do’t; 

Lest  I surcease  to  honor  mine  own  truth, 

And,  by  my  body’s  action,  teach  my  mind 
A most  inherent  baseness. 

Volumnia.  At  thy  choice,  then: 

To  beg  of  thee,  it  is  my  more  dishonor, 

Than  thou  of  them.  Come  all  to  ruin,  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness;  for  I mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.  Do  as  thou  list. 

Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck’dst  it  from  me; 
But  owe  thy  pride  thyself. 

Coriolanus . Pray  be  content. 

Mother,  I am  going  to  the  market-place— 

Chide  me  no  more. 


When  the  spirit  of  the  mother  and  the  son  are 
brought  into  immediate  collision,  he  yields  before 


Volumnia. 


279 


her:  the  warrior  who  stemmed  alone  the  whole 
city  of  Corioli,  who  was  ready  to  face  “the  steep 
Tarpeian  death,  or  at  wild  horses’  heels — vaga- 
bond exile — flaying/’  rather  than  abate  one  jot  of 
his  proud  will — shrinks  at  her  rebuke.  The 
haughty,  fiery,  overbearing  temperament  of  Corio  * 
lanus  is  drawn  in  such  forcible  and  striking  colors, 
that  nothing  can  more  impress  us  with  the  real 
grandeur  and  power  of  Yolumnia’s  character  than 
his  boundless  submission  to  her  will — his  more 
than  filial  tenderness  and  respect. 


Yon  gods!  I prate, 

And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted.  Sink  my  knee  i’  the  earth; 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Than  that  of  common  sons. 


When  his  mother  appears  before  him  as  a sup- 
pliant, he  exclaims — 

My  mother  bows; 

As  if  Olympus  to  a molehill  should 
In  supplication  nod. 


Here  the  expression  of  reverence  and  the  mag- 
nificent image  in  which  it  is  clothed,  are  equally 
characteristic  both  of  the  mother  and  the  son. 

Her  aristocratic  haughtiness  is  a strong  trait  in 
Yolumnia’s  manner  and  character,  and  her 
supreme  contempt  for  the  plebeians,  whether  they 
are  to  be  defied  or  cajoled,  is  very  like  what  I have 
heard  expressed  by  some  high-born  and  high-bred 
women  of  our  own  day. 


280  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

I muse  my  mother 

Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woolen  vassals;  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats;  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations;  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder, 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace  or  war. 

And  Yolnmnia  reproaching  the  tribunes — 

’Twas  you  incensed  the  rabble: 
Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth, 

As  I can  of  those  mysteries  which  Heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 


There  is  all  the  Roman  spirit  in  her  exultation 
when  the  trumpets  sound  the  return  of  Corio- 
lanus — 

Hark!  the  trumpets! 

These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius:  before  him 
He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves  tears. 


And  in  her  speech  to  the  gentle  Virgilia,  who  is 
weeping  her  husband’s  bandishment — 

Leave  this  faint  puling.  And  lament  as  I do, 

In  anger— Juno-like! 


Rut  the  triumph  of  Volumnia’s  character,  the 
full  display  of  all  her  grandeur  of  soul,  her  patri- 
otism, her  strong  affections,  and  her  sublime  elo- 
quence, are  reserved  for  her  last  scene,  in  which 
she  pleads  for  the  safety  of  Rome,  and  wins  from 
her  angry  son  that  peace  which  all  the  swords  of 
Italy  and  her  confederate  arms  could  not  have 
purchased.  The  strict  and  even  literal  adher- 


Volumnia.  281 

ence  to  the  truth  of  history  is  an  additional 
beauty. 

Her  famous  speech,  beginning  “Should  we  be 
silent  and  not  speak,”  is  nearly  word  for  word 
from  Plutarch,  with  some  additional  graces  of  ex- 
pression, and  the  charm  of  metre  superadded.  I 
shall  give  the  last  lines  of  this  address,  as  illus- 
trating that  noble  and  irresistible  eloquence  which 
was  the  crowning  ornament  of  the  character.  One 
exquisite  touch  of  nature,  which  is  distinguished 
by  italics,  was  beyond  the  rhetorician  and  his- 
torian, and  belongs  only  to  the  poet. 


Speak  to  me,  son: 

Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honor, 

To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods; 

To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o’  the  air, 

And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.  Why  dost  not  speak? 
Think’st  thou  it  honorable  for  a noble  man 
Still  to  remember  wrongs?  Daughter,  speak  you: 

He  cares  not  for  your  weeping.— Speak  thou,  boy; 
Perhaps,  thy  childishness  will  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons.  There’s  no  man  in  the  world 
More  bound  to’s  mother;  yet  here  he  lets  me  prate 
Like  one  i’  the  stocks.  Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show’d  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy: 

When  she , ( poor  hen!)  fond  of  no  second  brood. 

Has  cluck’d  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home, 

Laden  with  honor . Say  my  request’s  unjust, 

And  spurn  me  back:  but,  if  it  be  not  so. 

Thou  art  not  honest;  and  the  gods  will  plague  thee, 
That  thou  restrain’st  from  me  the  duty,  which 
To  a mother’s  part  belongs.— He  turns  awTay: 

Down,  ladies;  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 

To  his  surname  Coriolanus  ’longs  more  pride 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers;  dowTn;  and  end; 

This  is  the  last— so  wTe  will  home  to  Pome. 

And  die  among  our  neighbors.— Nay,  behold  us; 


282  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have, 

But  kneels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship, 

Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny’t.* 

It  is  an  instance  of  Shakspeare’s  fine  judgment, 
that  after  this  magnificent  and  touching  piece  of 
eloquence,  which  saved  Rome,  Volumnia  should 
speak  no  more,  for  she  could  say  nothing  that 
would  not  deteriorate  from  the  effect  thus  left 
on  the  imagination.  She  is  at  last  dismissed  from 
our  admiring  gaze  amid  the  thunder  of  grateful 
acclamations — 


Behold  our  patroness— the  life  of  Rome! 


* The  corresponding  passage  in  the  old  English  Plutarch 
runs  thus:  “My  son,  why  dost  thou  not  answer  me?  Dost 
thou  think  it  good  altogether  to  give  place  unto  thy  choler 
and  revenge,  and  thinkest  thou  it  not  honesty  for  thee  to 
grant  thy  mother’s  request  in  so  weighty  a cause?  Dost 
thou  take  it  honorable  for  a nobleman  to  remember  the 
wrongs  and  injuries  done  him,  and  dost  not  in  like  case 
think  it  an  honest  nobleman’s  part  to  be  thankful  for 
the  goodness  that  parents  do  show  to  their  children, 
acknowledging  the  duty  and  reverence  they  ought  to  bear 
unto  them?  No  man  living  is  more  bound  to  show  himself 
thankful  in  all  parts  and  respects  than  thyself,  who  so 
universally  showest  all  ingratitude.  Moreover,  my  son,  thou 
hast  sorely  taken  of  thy  country,  exacting  grievous  pay- 
ments upon  them  in  revenge  of  the  injuries  offered  thee; 
besides,  thou  hast  not  hitherto  showed  thy  poor  mother  any 
courtesy.  And,  therefore,  it  is  not  only  honest,  but  due 
unto  me,  that  without  compulsion  I should  obtain  my  so  just 
and  reasonable  request  of  thee.  But  since  by  reason  I can- 
not persuade  ye  to  it,  to  what  purpose  do  I defer  my  last 
hope?”  And  with  these  words,  herself,  his  wife,  and  chil- 
dren, fell  down  upon  their  knees  before  him. 


CONSTANCE. 


WE  have  seen  that  in  the  mother  of  Corio- 
lanns  the  principal  qualities  are  exceed- 
ing pride,  self-will,  strong  maternal  affec- 
tion, great  power  of  imagination,  and  energy  of 
temper.  Precisely  the  same  qualities  enter  into 
the  mind  of  Constance  of  Bretange;  but  in  her 
these  qualities  are  so  differently  modified  by  cir- 
cumstances and  education,  that  not  even  in  fancy 
do  we  think  of  instituting  a comparison  between 
the  Gothic  grandeur  of  Constance  and  the  more 
severe  and  classical  dignity  of  the  Roman  matron. 

The  scenes  and  circumstances  with  which  Shak- 
speare  has  surrounded  Constance  are  strictly  faith- 
ful to  the  old  chronicles,  and  are  as  vividly  as  they 
are  accurately  represented.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  hints  on  which  the  character  has  been  con- 
structed are  few  and  vague;  but  the  portrait  har- 
monizes so  wonderfully  with  its  historic  back- 
ground, and  with  all  that  later  researches  have 
discovered  relative  to  the  personal  adventures  of 
Constance,  that  I have  not  the  slightest  doubt 
of  its  individual  truth.  The  result  of  a life  of 
strange  vicissitude;  the  picture  of  a tameless  will, 
and  high  passions,  for  ever  struggling  in  vain 
against  a superior  power;  and  the  real  situation  of 
women  in  those  chivalrous  times,  are  placed  be- 
fore us  in  a few  noble  scenes.  The  manner  in 
which  Shakspeare  has  applied  the  scattered  hints 
of  history  to  the  formation  of  the  character,  re- 
2-3 


284  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

minds  ns  of  that  magician  who  collected  the 
mangled  limbs  which  had  been  dispersed  up  and 
down,  reunited  them  into  the  human  form,  and 
reanimated  them  with  the  breathing  and  conscious 
spirit  of  life. 

Constance  of  Bretagne  was  the  only  daughter 
and  heiress  of  Conan  IY,  Duke  of  Bretagne;  her 
mother  was  Margaret  of  Scotland,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Malcolm  IY:  but  little  mention  is 
made  of  this  princess  in  the  old  histories.  She 
appears  to  have  inherited  some  portion  of  the 
talent  and  spirit  of  her  father,  and  to  have  trans- 
mitted them  to  her  daughter.  The  misfortunes 
of  Constance  may  be  said  to  have  commenced 
before  her  birth,  and  took  their  rise  in  the  mis- 
conduct of  one  of  her  female  ancestors.  Her 
great-grandmother  Matilda,  the  wife  of  Conan  III, 
was  distinguished  by  her  beauty  and  imperious 
temper,  and  not  less  by  her  gallantries.  Her  hus- 
band, not  thinking  proper  to  repudiate  her  during 
his  lifetime,  contented  himself  with  disinheriting 
her  son  Hoel,  whom  he  declared  illegitimate,  and 
bequeathed  his  dukedom  to  his  daughter  Bertha, 
and  her  husband  Allan  the  Black,  Earl  of  Rich- 
mond, who  were  proclaimed  and  acknowledged 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Bretagne. 

Prince  Hoel,  so  far  from  acquiescing  in  his 
father's  will,  immediately  levied  an  army  to  main- 
tain his  rights,  and  a civil  war  ensued  between  the 
brother  and  sister,  which  lasted  for  twelve  or 
fourteen  years.  Bertha,  whose  reputation  was 
not  much  fairer  than  that  of  her  mother,  Matilda, 
was  succeeded  by  her  son  Conan  IY;  he  was 
young,  and  of  a feeble,  vacillating  temper,  and, 


Constance. 


285 


after  struggling  for  a few  years  against  the  in- 
creasing power  of  his  uncle  Hoel  and  his  own  re- 
bellious barons,  he  called  in  the  aid  of  that  politic 
and  ambitious  monarch,  Henry  II  of  England, 
This  fatal  step  decided  the  fate  of  his  crown  and 
his  posterity;  from  the  moment  the  English  set 
foot  in  Bretagne,  that  miserable  country  became  a 
scene  of  horrors  and  crimes — oppression  and  per- 
fidy on  the  one  hand,  unavailing  struggles  on  the 
other.  Ten  years  of  civil  discord  ensued,  during 
which  the  greatest  part  of  Bretagne  was  desolated, 
and  nearly  a third  of  the  population  carried  off 
by  famine  and  pestilence.  In  the  end,  Conan 
was  secured  in  the  possession  of  his  throne  by  the 
assistance  of  the  English  king,  who,  equally  subtle 
and  ambitious,  contrived  in  the  course  of  this 
warfare  to  strip  Conan  of  most  of  his  provinces 
by  successive  treaties,  alienate  the  Breton  nobles 
from  their  lawful  sovereign,  and  at  length  render 
the  Duke  himself  the  mere  vassal  of  his  power. 

In  the  midst  of  these  scenes  of  turbulence  and 
bloodshed  was  Constance  bom,  in  1164.  The 
English  king  consummated  his  perfidious  scheme 
of  policy,  by  seizing  on  the  person  of  the  infant 
princess,  before  she  was  three  years  old,  as  a 
hostage  for  her  father.  Afterwards,  by  contract- 
ing her  in  marriage  to  his  third  son,  Geoffrey 
Plantagenet,  he  ensured,  as  he  thought,  the  pos- 
session of  the  duchy  of  Bretagne  to  his  own 
posterity. 

From  this  time  we  hear  no  more  of  the  weak, 
unhappy  Conan,  who  retiring  from  a fruitless 
contest,  hid  himself  in  some  obscure  retreat:  even 
the  date  of  his  death  is  unknown.  Meanwhile 


286  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Henry  openly  claimed  the  duchy  in  behalf  of  his 
son  Geoffrey  and  the  Lady  Constance;  and  their 
claims  not  being  immediately  acknowledged,  he 
invaded  Bretagne  with  a large  army,  laid  waste 
the  country,  bribed  or  forced  some  of  the  barons 
into  submission,  murdered  or  imprisoned  others, 
and,  by  the  most  treacherous  and  barbarous  policy, 
contrived  to  keep  possession  of  the  country  he 
had  thus  seized.  However,  in  order  to  satisfy  the 
Bretons,  who  were  attached  to  the  race  of  their 
ancient  sovereigns,  and  to  give  some  color  to  his 
usurpation,  he  caused  Geoffrey  and  Constance  to 
be  solemnly  crowned,  at  Rennes,  as  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Bretagne.  This  was  in  the  year  1169, 
when  Constance  was  five,  and  Prince  Geoffrey 
about  eight  years  old.  His  father,  Henry,  con- 
tinued to  rule,  or  rather  to  ravage  and  oppress  the 
country  in  their  name,  for  about  fourteen  years, 
during  which  period  we  do  not  hear  of  Constance. 
She  appears  to  have  been  kept  in  a species  of  con- 
straint as  a hostage  rather  than  a sovereign; 
while  her  husband  Geoffrey,  as  he  grew  up  to 
manhood,  was  too  much  engaged  in  keeping  the 
Bretons  in  order  and  disputing  his  rights  with,  his 
father,  to  think  about  the  completion  of  his 
union  with  Constance,  although  his  sole  title  to 
the  dukedom  was  properly  and  legally  in  right  of 
his  wife.  At  length,  in  1182,  the  nuptials  were 
formally  celebrated,  Constance  being  then  in  her 
nineteenth  year.  At  the  same  time  she  was  recog- 
nized as  Duchess  of  Bretagne  de  son  chef  (that  is, 
in  her  own  right)  by  two  acts  of  legislation,  which 
are  still  preserved  among  the  records  of  Bretagne, 
and  bear  her  own  seal  and  signature. 


Constance. 


287 


Those  domestic  feuds  which  embittered  the 
whole  life  of  Henry  II,  and  at  length  broke  his 
heart,  are  well  known.  Of  all  his  sons,  who  were 
in  continual  rebellion  against  him,  Geoffrey  was 
the  most  undutiful  and  the  most  formidable:  he 
had  all  the  pride  of  the  Plantagenets — all  the  war- 
like accomplishments  of  his  two  elder  brothers, 
Henry  and  Richard;  and  was  the  only  one  who 
could  compete  with  his  father  in  talent,  elo- 
quence, and  dissimulation.  Ho  sooner  was  he  the 
husband  of  Constance,  and  in  possession  of  the 
throne  of  Bretagne,  than  he  openly  opposed  his 
father;  in  other  words,  he  maintained  the  honor 
and  interests  of  his  wife  and  her  unhappy  country 
against  the  cruelties  and  oppression  of  the  Eng- 
lish plunderers.*  About  three  years  after  his 
marriage  he  was  invited  to  Paris,  for  the  purpose 
of  concluding  a league,  offensive  and  defensive, 
with  the  French  king;  in  this  journey  he  was 
accompanied  by  the  Duchess  Constance,  and  they 
were  received  and  entertained  with  royal  mag- 
nificence. Geoffrey,  who  excelled  in  all  chivalrous 
accomplishments,  distinguished  himself  in  the 
tournaments  which  were  celebrated  on  the  occa- 
sion; but,  unfortunately,  after  an  encounter  with 
a French  knight  celebrated  for  his  powess,  he  was 
accidentally  flung  from  his  horse,  and  trampled 
to  death  in  the  lists  before  he  could  be  extricated. 

Constance,  being  now  left  a widow,  returned  to 
Bretagne,  where  her  barons  rallied  round  her, 
and  acknowledged  her  as  their  sovereign.  The 
Salique  law  did  not  prevail  in  Bretagne,  and  it 
appears  that  in  those  times  the  power  of  a female 

* Daru,  “Histoire  de  Bretagne.” 


288  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

to  possess  and  transmit  the  rights  of  sovereignty 
had  been  recognized  in  several  instances;  but  Con- 
stance is  the  first  woman  who  exercised  those 
rights  in  her  own  person.  She  had  one  daughter, 
Elinor,  born  in  the  second  year  of  her  marriage, 
and  a few  months  after  her  husband’s  death  she 
gave  birth  to  a son.  The  states  of  Bretagne  were 
filled  with  exultation;  they  required  that  the  in- 
fant prince  should  not  bear  the  name  of  his  father 
* — a name  which  Constance,  in  fond  remembrance 
of  her  husband,  would  have  bestowed  on  him — 
still  less  that  of  his  grandfather  Henry;  but  that 
of  Arthur,  the  redoubted  hero  of  their  country, 
whose  memory  was  worshipped  by  the  populace. 
Though  the  Arthur  of  romantic  and  fairy  legends 
— the  Arthur  of  the  Round  Table — had  been  dead 
for  six  centuries,  they  still  looked  for  his  second 
appearance  among  them,  according  to  the 
prophecy  of  Merlin;  and  now,  with  fond  and 
short-sighted  enthusiasm,  fixed  their  hopes  on  the 
young  Arthur  as  .one  destined  to  redeem  the  glory 
and  independence  of  their  oppressed  and  miserable 
country.  But  in  the  very  midst  of  the  rejoicings 
which  succeeded  the  birth  of  the  prince,  his 
grandfather,  Henry  II,  demanded  to  have  the  pos- 
session and  guardianship  of  his  person;  and  on  the 
spirited  refusal  of  Constance  to  yield  her  son  into 
his  power,  he  invaded  Bretagne  with  a large  army, 
plundering,  burning,  devastating  the  country  as 
he  advanced;  he  seized  Rennes,  the  capital,  and 
having  by  the  basest  treachery  obtained  possession 
of  the  persons  both  of  the  young  duchess  and  her 
children,  he  married  Constance  forcibly  to  one 
cf  his  own  favorite  adherents,  Randal  de  Blonde- 


IyADY  MACBKTH. 


Constance. 


289 


ville,  Earl  of  Chester,  and  conferred  on  him  the 
duchy  of  Bretagne,  to  be  held  as  a fief  of  the 
English  crown. 

The  Earl  of  Chester,  though  a brave  knight, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  barons  of  England,  had  no 
pretensions  to  so  high  an  alliance;  nor  did  he 
possess  any  qualities  or  personal  accomplishments 
which  might  have  reconciled  Constance  to  him  as 
a husband.  He  was  a man  of  diminutive  stature 
and  mean  appearance,  but  of  haughty  and  fero- 
cious manners  and  unbounded  ambition.*  In  a 
conference  between  this  Earl  of  Chester  and  the 
Earl  of  Perche,  in  Lincoln  Cathedral,  the  latter 
taunted  Randal  with  his  insignificant  person,  and 
called  him,  contemptuously,  “Dwarf.”  “Say’st 
thou  so?”  replied  Randal;  “I  vow  to  God  and  our 
Lady,  whose  church  this  is,  that  ere  long  I will 
seem  to  thee  high  as  that  steeple!”  He  was  as  good 
as  his  word,  when,  on  ascending  the  throne  of 
Brittany,  the  Earl  of  Perche  became  his  vassal. 

We  cannot  know  what  measures  were  used  to 
force  this  degradation  on  the  reluctant  and  high- 
spirited  Constance;  it  is  only  certain  that  she 
never  considered  her  marriage  in  the  light  of  a 
sacred  obligation,  and  that  she  took  the  first 
opportunity  of  legally  breaking  from  a chain 
which  could  scarcely  be  considered  as  legally  bind- 
ing. For  about  a year  she  was  obliged  to  allow 
this  detested  husband  the  title  of  Luke  of 
Bretagne,  and  he  administered  the  government 
without  the  slightest  reference  to  her  will,  even 
in  form,  till  1189,  when  Henry  II  died,  execrat- 
ing himself  and  his  undutiful  children.  What- 

* Sir  Peter  Leycester’s  “Antiquities  of  Chester/' 


290 


Shaksneare’s  Heroines. 


ever  great  and  good  qualities  this  monarch  may 
have  possessed,  his  conduct  in  Bretagne  was  uni- 
formly detestable.  Even  the  unfilial  behavior  of 
his  sons  may  be  extenuated;  for  while  he  spent 
his  life,  and  sacrificed  his  peace,  and  violated  every 
principle  of  honor  and  humanity  to  compass  their 
political  aggrandisement,  he  was  guilty  of  atro- 
cious injustice  towards  them,  and  set  them  a bad 
example  in  his  own  person. 

The  tidings  of  Henry’s  death  had  no  sooner 
reached  Bretagne  than  the  barons  of  that  coun- 
try rose  with  one  accord  against  his  government, 
banished  or  massacred  his  officers,  and,  sanctioned 
by  the  Duchess  Constance,  drove  Randal  de 
Blondeville  and  his  followers  from  Bretagne:  he 
retired  to  his  earldom  of  Chester,  there  to  brood 
over  his  injuries  and  meditate  vengeance. 

In  the  meantime  Richard  I.  ascended  the  Eng- 
lish throne.  Soon  afterwards  he  embarked  on  his 
celebrated  expedition  to  the  Holy  Land,  having 
previously  declared  Prince  Arthur,  the  only  son 
of  Constance,  heir  to  all  his  dominions.* 

His  absence,  and  that  of  many  of  her  own  tur- 
bulent barons  and  encroaching  neighbors  left  to 
Constance  and  her  harassed  dominions  a short 
interval  of  profound  peace.  The  historians  of 
that  period,  occupied  by  the  warlike  exploits  of 
the  French  and  English  kings  in  Palestine,  make 
but  little  mention  of  the  domestic  events  of 
Europe  during  their  absence;  but  it  is  no  slight 
encomium  on  the  character  of  Constance,  that 
Bretagne  flourished  under  her  government,  and 
began  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  twenty  years 

* By  the  Treaty  of  Messina,  1190. 


Constance. 


291 


of  desolating  war.  The  seven  years  during  which 
she  ruled  as  an  independent  sovereign  were  not 
marked  by  any  events  of  importance;  but  in  the 
year  1196  she  caused  her  son  Arthur,  then  nine 
years  of  age,  to  be  acknowledged  Duke  . of 
Bretagne  by  the  States,  and  associated  him  with 
herself  in  all  the  acts  of  government. 

There  was  more  of  maternal  fondness  than 
policy  in  this  measure,  and  it  cost  her  dear.  Rich- 
ard, that  royal  firebrand,  had  now  returned  to 
England:  by  the  intrigues  and  representations  of 
Earl  Randal  his  attention  was  turned  to  Bretagne. 
He  expressed  extreme  indignation  that  Constance 
should  have  proclaimed  her  son  Duke  of  Bretagne 
and  her  partner  in  power,  without  his  consent,  he 
being  the  feudal  lord  and  natural  guardian  of  the 
young  prince.  After  some  excuses  and  representa- 
tions on  the  part  of  Constance  he  affected  to  be 
pacified,  and  a friendly  interview  was  appointed 
at  Pontorson,  on  the  frontiers  of  Hormandy. 

We  can  hardly  reconcile  the  cruel  and  perfidious 
scenes  which  follow  with  those  romantic  and  chiv- 
alrous associations  which  illustrate  the  memory  of 
Coeur  de  Lion — the  friend  of  Blondel,  and  the  an- 
tagonist of  Saladin.  Constance,  perfectly  unsus- 
picious of  the  meditated  treason,  accepted  the  in- 
vitation of  her  brother-in-law,  and  set  out  from 
Rennes  with  a small  but  magnificent  retinue  to 
join  him  at  Pontorson.  On  the  road,  and  within 
sight  of  the  town,  the  Earl  of  Chester  was  posted 
with  a troop  of  Richard’s  soldiery,  and  while  the 
duchess  prepared  to  enter  the  gates,  where  she 
expected  to  be  received  with  honor  and  welcome, 
he  suddenly  rushed  from  his  ambuscade,  fell  upon 


292  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

her  and  her  suite,  put  the  latter  to  flight,  and  car- 
ried oft  Constance  to  the  strong  castle  of  St. 
Jaques  de  Beuvron,  where  he  detained  her  a pris- 
oner for  eighteen  months.  The  chronicle  does 
not  tell  us  how  Randal  treated  his  unfortunate 
wife  during  this  long  imprisonment.  She  was 
absolutely  in  his  power;  none  of  her  own  people 
were  suffered  to  approach  her,  and  whatever  might 
have  been  his  behavior  towards  her,  one  thing 
alone  is  certain,  that  so  far  from  softening  her 
feelings  towards  him,  it  seems  to  have  added  ten- 
fold bitterness  to  her  abhorrence  and  her  scorn. 

The  barons  of  Bretagne  sent  the  Bishop  of 
Rennes  to  complain  of  this  violation  of  faith  and 
justice,  and  to  demand  the  restitution  of  the 
duchess.  Richard  meanly  evaded  and  temporized: 
he  engaged  to  restore  Constance  to  liberty  on  cer- 
tain conditions;  but  this  was  merely  to  gain  time. 
When  the  stipulated  terms  were  complied  with, 
and  the  hostages  delivered,  the  Bretons  sent  a 
herald  to  the  English  king,  to  require  him  to  ful- 
fill his  part  of  the  treaty,  and  restore  their  beloved 
Constance.  Richard  replied  with  insolent  defi- 
ance, refused  to  deliver  up  either  the  hostages  or 
Constance,  and  marched  his  army  into  the  heart 
of  the  country. 

All  that  Bretagne  had  suffered  previously  was 
as  nothing  compared  to  this  terrible  invasion;  and 
all  that  the  humane  and  peaceful  government  of 
Constance  had  effected  during  seven  years  was  at 
once  annihilated.  The  English  barons  and  their 
savage  and  mercenary  followers  spread  themselves 
through  the  country,  which  they  wasted  with  fire 
and  sword.  The  castles  of  those  who  ventured  to 


Constance. 


293 


defend  themselves  were  razed  to  the  ground,  the 
towns  and  villages  plundered  and  burnt,  and  the 
wretched  inhabitants  fled  to  the  caves  and  forests; 
but  not  even  there  could  they  find  an  asylum:  by 
the  orders,  and  in  the  presence  of  Richard,  the 
woods  were  set  on  fire,  and  hundreds  either  per- 
ished in  the  flames  or  were  suffocated  in  the 
smoke. 

Constance,  meanwhile,  could  only  wreep  in  her 
captivity  over  the  miseries  of  her  country,  and 
tremble  with  all  a mother’s  fears  for  the  safety  of 
her  son.  She  had  placed  Arthur  under  the  care 
of  William  Desroches,  the  seneschal  of  her  palace, 
a man  of  mature  years,  of  approved  valor,  and  de- 
votedly attached  to  her  family.  This  faithful  ser- 
vant threw  himself,  with  his  young  charge,  into 
the  fortress  of  Brest,  where  he  for  some  time  defied 
the  power  of.  the  English  king. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  brave  resistance  of  the 
nobles  and  people  of  Bretagne,  they  were  obliged 
to  submit  to  the  conditions  imposed  by  Richard. 
By  a treaty  concluded  in  1198,  of  which  the  terms 
are  not  exactly  known,  Constance  was  delivered 
from  her  captivity,  though  not  from  her  husband; 
but  in  the  following  year,  when  the  death  of  Rich- 
ard had  restored  her  to  some  degree  of  independ- 
ence, the  first  use  she  made  of  it  was  to  divorce 
herself  from  Randal.  She  took  this  step  with  her 
usual  precipitancy,  not  waiting  for  the  sanction 
of  the  Pope,  as  was  the  custom  in  those  days;  and 
soon  afterwards  she  gave  her  hand  to  Guy,  Count 
de  Thouars,  a man  of  courage  and  integrity,  who 
for  some  time  maintained  the  cause  of  his  wife  and 
her  son  against  the  power  of  England.  Arthur 


294 


Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

was  now  fourteen,  and  the  legitimate  heir  of  all 
the  dominions  of  his  uncle  Richard.  Constance 
placed  him  under  the  guardianship  of  the  King 
of  France,  who  knighted  the  young  prince  with 
his  own  hand,  and  solemnly  swore  to  defend  his 
rights  against  his  usurping  uncle,  John. 

It  is  at  this  moment  that  the  play  of  “King 
John”  opens;  and  history  is  followed,  as  closely 
as  the  dramatic  form  would  allow,  to  the  death  of 
John.  The  real  fate  of  poor  Arthur,  after  he 
had  been  abandoned  by  the  French,  and  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  his  uncle,  is  now  ascertained; 
but  according  to  the  chronicle  from  which 
Shakspeare  drew  his  materials,  he  was  killed  in 
attempting  to  escape  from  the  castle  of  Falaise. 
Constance  did  not  live  to  witness  this  consum- 
mation of  her  calamities:  within  a few  months 
after  Arthur  was  taken  prisoner,  in  1201,  she  died 
suddenly,  before  she  had  attained  her  thirty- 
ninth  year;  but  the  cause  of  her  death  is  not  speci- 
fied. 

Her  eldest  daughter,  Elinor,  the  legitimate 
heiress  of  England,  Normandy,  and  Bretagne,  died 
in  captivity;  having  been  kept  a prisoner  in  Bris- 
tol Castle  from  the  age  of  fifteen.  She  was  at  that 
time  so  beautiful,  that  she  was  called  proverbially, 
“La  belle  Bretonne,”  and  by  the  English  the 
“Fair  Maid  of  Brittany.”  She,  like  her  brother 
Arthur,  was  sacrificed  to  the  ambition  of  her 
uncles. 

Of  the  two  daughters  of  Constance  by  Guy  de 
Thouars,  the  eldest,  Alice,  became  Duchess  of 
Bretagne,  and  married  the  Count  de  Dreux,  of  the 
royal  blood  of  France.  The  sovereignty  of  Bre- 


Constance. 


295 


tagne  was  transmitted  through  her  descendants  in. 
an  uninterrupted  line,  till,  by  the  marriage  of  the 
celebrated  Anne  de  Bretagne  with  Charles  YIII. 
of  France,  her  dominions  were  forever  united  with 
the  French  monarchy.  In  considering  the  real 
history  of  Constance,  three  things  must  strike  ns 
as  chiefly  remarkable. 

First,  that  she  is  not  accused  of  any  vice,  or  any 
act  of  injustice  or  violence;  and  this  praise,  though 
poor  and  negative,  should  have  its  due  weight, 
considering  the  scanty  records  that  remain  of  her 
troubled  life  and  the  period  at  which  she  lived — 
a period  in  which  crimes  of  the  darkest  die  were 
familiar  occurrences.  Her  father,  Conan,  was 
considered  as  a gentle  and  amiable  prince — “gen- 
tle even  to  feebleness;  ” yet  we  are  told  that  on 
one  occasion  he  acted  over  again  the  tragedy  of 
Ugolino  and  Buggiero,  when  he  shut  up  the  Count 
de  Dol,  with  his  two  sons  and  his  nephew,  in  a 
dungeon,  and  deliberately  starved  them  to  death; 
an  event  recorded  without  any  particular  com- 
ment by  the  old  chroniclers  of  Bretagne.  It  also 
appears  that  during  those  intervals  when  Con- 
stance administered  the  government  of  her  States 
with  some  degree  of  independence,  the  country 
prospered  under  her  sway;  and  that  she  possessed 
at  all  times  the  love  of  her  people  and  the  respect 
of  her  nobles. 

Secondly,  no  imputation  whatever  has  been  cast 
on  the  honor  of  Constance  as  a wife  and  as  a 
woman.  The  old  historians,  who  have  treated  in 
a very  unceremonious  style  the  levities  of  her 
great-grandmother  Matilda,  her  grandmother 
Bertha,,  her  godmother  Constance,  and  her 


296  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

mother-in-law  Elinor,  treat  the  name  and  memory 
of  our  Lady  Constance  with  uniform  respect. 

Her  third  marriage,  with  Guy  de  Thouars,  has 
been  censured  as  impolitic,  but  has  also  been  de- 
fended; it  can  hardly,  considering  her  age  and  the 
circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed,  be  a just 
subject  of  reproach.  During  her  hated  union 
with  Randal  de  Blondeville,  and  the  years  passed 
in  a species  of  widowhood,  she  conducted  herself 
with  propriety:  at  least  I can  find  no  reason  to 
judge  otherwise. 

Lastly,  we  are  struck  by  the  fearless,  determined 
spirit,  amounting  at  times  to  rashness,  which 
Constance  displayed  on  several  occasions,  when 
left  to  the  free  exercise  of  her  own  power  and 
will;  yet  we  see  how  frequently,  with  all  this  reso- 
lution and  pride  of  temper,  she  became  a mere  in- 
strument in  the  hands  of  others,  and  a victim  to 
the  superior  craft  or  power  of  her  enemies.  The 
inference  is  unavoidable;  there  must  have  existed 
in  the  mind  of  Constance,  with  all  her  noble  and 
amiable  qualities,  a deficiency  somewhere — a want 
of  firmness,  a want  of  judgment  or  wariness,  and 
a total  want  of  self-control. 

* * ❖ * Jfc  * * 

In  the  play  of  “King  John”  the  three  principal 
characters  are  the  King,  Lalconbridge,  and  Lady 
Constance.  The  first  is  drawn  forcibly  and  ac- 
curately from  history;  it  reminds  us  of  Titian’s 
portrait  of  Caesar  Borgia,  in  which  the  hatefulness 
of  the  subject  is  redeemed  by  the  masterly  skill 
of  the  artist — the  truth  and  power  and  wonderful 
beauty  of  the  execution.  Lalconbridge  is  the 


Constance. 


297 


spirited  creation  of  the  poet.*  Constance  is  cer- 
tainly an  historical  personage;  but  the  form  which, 
when  we  meet  it  on  the  record  of  history,  appears 
like  a pale,  indistinct  shadow,  half  melted  into  its 
obscure  background,  starts  before  us  into  a strong 
relief  and  palpable  breathing  reality  upon  the  page 
of  Shakspeare. 

Whenever  we  think  of  Constance,  it  is  in  her 
maternal  character.  All  the  interest  which  she 
excites  in  the  drama  turns  upon  her  situation  as 
the  mother  of  Arthur.  Every  circumstance  in 
which  she  is  placed,  every  sentiment  she  utters, 
has  a reference  to  him;  and  she  is  represented 
through  the  whole  of  the  scenes  in  which  she  is 
engaged,  as  alternately  pleading  for  the  rights  and 
trembling  for  the  existence  of  her  son. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  “Merope.”  In 
the  four  tragedies  of  which  her  story  forms  the 
subject,!  we  see  her  but  in  one  point  of  view, 
namely,  as  a mere  impersonation  of  the  maternal 
feeling.  The  poetry  of  the  situation  is  everything, 
the  character  nothing.  Interesting  as  she  is,  take 
Merope  out  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  is 
placed,  take  away  her  son,  for  whom  she  trembles 
from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  and  Merope  in 
herself  is  nothing:  she  melts  away  into  a name, 

* Malone  says,  that,  “in  expanding  the  character  of  the 
bastard.  Shakspeare  seems  to  have  proceeded  on  the  follow- 
ing slight  hint  in  an  old  play  on  the  story  of  King  John: 
Next  them  a bastard  of  the  king’s  deceased— 

A hardy  wild-head,  rough  and  venturous.” 

It  is  easy  to  say  this;  yet,  who  but  Shakspeare  could  have 
expanded  the  last  line  into  a Falconbridge? 

f The  Greek  “Merope,”  which  was  esteemed  one  of  the 
finest  of  the  tragedies  of  Euripides,  is  unhappily  lost;  those 
of  Maffei.  Alfieri,  and  Voltaire,  are  well  known.  There  is 
another  “Merope,”  in  Italian,  which  I have  not  seen;  the 
English  “Merope”  is  merely  a bad  translation  from  Voltaire. 


298  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

to  which  we  can  affix  no  other  characteristic  by 
which  to  distinguish  her.  We  recognize  her  no 
longer.  Her  position  is  that  of  an  agonized 
mother;  and  we  can  no  more  fancy  her  under  a 
different  aspect,  than  we  can  imagine  the  statue 
of  Niobe  in  a different  attitude. 

But  while  we  contemplate  the  character  of  Con- 
stance, she  assumes  before  us  an  individuality  per- 
fectly distinct  from  the  circumstances  around  her. 
The  action  calls  forth  her  maternal  feelings.,  and 
places  them  in  the  most  prominent  point  of  view: 
but  with  Constance,  as  with  a real  human  being, 
the  maternal  affections  are  a powerful  instinct, 
modified  by  other  faculties,  sentiments,  and  im- 
pulses, making  up  the  individual  character.  We 
think  of  her  as  a mother,  because,  as  a mother 
distracted  for  the  loss  of  her  son,  she  is  im- 
mediately presented  before  us,  and  calls  forth  our 
sympathy  and  our  tears;  but  we  infer  the  rest  of 
her  character  from  what  we  see,  as  certainly  and 
as  completely  as  if  we  had  known  her  whole  course 
of  life. 

That  which  strikes  us  as  the  principal  attribute 
of  Constance  is  power — power  of  imagination,  of 
will,  of  passion,  of  affection,  of  pride:  the  moral 
energy,  that  faculty  which  is  principally  exercised 
in  self-control,  and  gives  consistency  to  the  rest, 
is  deficient;  or  rather  to  speak  more  correctly,  the 
extraordinary  development  of  sensibility  and  im- 
agination, which  lends  to  the  character  its  rich 
poetical  coloring,  leaves  the  other  qualities  com- 
paratively subordinate.  Hence  it  is  that  the  whole 
complexion  of  the  character,  notwithstanding  its 
amazing  grandeur,  is  so  exquisitely  feminine.  The 


Constance. 


299 


weakness  of  the  woman,  who  by  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  that  weakness  is  worked  up  to  des- 
peration and  defiance,  the  fluctuations  of  temper, 
and  the  bursts  of  sublime  passion,  the  terrors,  the 
impatience,  and  the  tears,  are  all  most  true  to 
feminine  nature.  The  energy  of  Constance,  not 
being  based  upon  strength  of  character,  rises  and 
falls  with  the  tide  of  passion.  Her  haughty  spirit 
swells  against  resistance,  and  is  excited  into  frenzy 
by  sorrow  and  disappointment;  while  neither  from 
her  towering  pride  nor  her  strength  of  intellect 
can  she  borrow  patience  to  submit  or  fortitude  to 
endure.  It  is,  therefore,  with  perfect  truth  of 
nature,  that  Constance  is  first  introduced  as  plead- 
ing for  peace — 

Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 

Lest  unadvis’d  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood. 

My  Lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  war; 

And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood 
That  hot  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 


And  that  the  same  woman,  when  all  her  passions 
are  roused  by  the  sense  of  injury,  should  after- 
wards exclaim — 

War,  war!  No  peace!  peace  is  to  me  a war! 

that  she  should  be  ambitious  for  her  son,  proud  of 
his  high  birth  and  royal  rights,  and  violent  in 
defending  them,  is  most  natural;  but  I cannot 
agree  with  those  ❖ho  think  that  in  the  mind  of 
Constance,  ambition — that  is,  the  love  of  dominion 
for  its  own  sake — is  either  a strong  motive  or  a 
strong  feeling:  it  could  hardly  be  so  where  the 


300  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

natural  impulses  and  the  ideal  power  predominate 
in  so  high  a degree.  The  vehemence  with  which 
she  asserts  the  just  and  legal  rights  of  her  son  is 
that  of  a fond  mother  and  a proud-spirited 
woman,  stung  with  the  sense  of  injury,  and  her- 
self a reigning  sovereign — by  birth  and  right,  if 
not  in  fact:  yet  when  bereaved  of  her  son,  grief 
not  only  “fills  the  room  up  of  her  absent  child,” 
but  seems  to  absorb  every  other  faculty  and  feel- 
ing— even  pride  and  anger.  It  is  true  that  she 
exults  over  him  as  one  whom  nature  and  fortune 
had  destined  to  be  great , but  in  her  distraction  for 
his  loss  she  thinks  of  him  only  as  her  “pretty 
Arthur” — 

O lord!  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son! 

My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world! 

My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows’  cure; 

No  other  feeling  can  be  traced  through  the  whole 
of  her  frantic  scene:  it  is  grief  only,  a mother’s 
heartrending,  soul-absorbing  grief,  and  nothing 
else.  Not  even  indignation,  or  the  desire  of  re- 
venge, interfere  with  its  soleness  and  intensity. 
An  ambitious  woman  would  hardly  have  thus  ad* 
dressed  the-  cold,  wily  Cardinal — 

And,  Father  Cardinal,  I have  heard  you  say 
That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven; 

If  that  be  true,  I shall  see  my  boy  again; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 

To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 

There  was  not  such  a gracious  creature  born; 

But  now  will  canker— sorrow  eat  my  bud, 

And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 

And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a ghost; 

As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague’s  fit; 


Constance. 


301 


And  so  he’ll  die;  and,  rising  so  again, 

When  I shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 

I shall  not  know  him;  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

The  bewildered  pathos  and  poetry  of  this  ad- 
dress could  be  natural  in  no  woman  who  did  not 
unite,  like  Constance,  the  most  passionate  sen- 
sibility with  the  most  vivid  imagination. 

It  is  true  that  Queen  Elinor  calls  her  on  one 
occasion  “ambitious  Constance;”  but  the  epithet 
is  rather  the  natural  expression  of  Elinor’s  own 
fear  and  hatred  than  really  applicable.*  Elinor, 
in  whom  age  had  subdued  all  passions  but  ambi- 
tion, dreaded  the  mother  of  Arthur  as  her  rival 
in  power,  and  for  that  reason  only  opposed  the 
claims  of  the  son:  but  I conceive,  that  in  a woman 
yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  endued  with  the  pe- 
culiar disposition  of  Constance,  the  mere  love  of 
# power  would  be  too  much  modified  by  fancy  and 
feeling  to  be  called  a passion. 

In  fact,  it  is  not  pride,  nor  temper,  nor  ambi- 
tion, nor  even  maternal  affection,  which  in  Con- 
stance gives  the  prevailing  tone  to  the  whole  char- 
acter; it  is  the  predominance  of  imagination.  I 
do  not  mean  in  the  conception  of  the  dramatic 
portrait^  but  in  the  temperament  of  the  woman 
herself.  In  the  poetical,  fanciful,  excitable  cast 
of  her  mind,  in  the  excess  of  the  ideal  power,  ting- 
ing all  her  affections,  exalting  all  her  sentiments 
and  thoughts,  and  animating  the  expression  of 
both,  Constance  can  only  be  compared  to  Juliet. 

* “Queen  Elinor  saw  that  if  he  were  king,  how  his  mother 
Constance  would  look  to  bear  the  most  rule  in  the  realm  of 
England,  till  her  son  should  come  to  a lawful  age  to  govern 
of  himself.”— Holinshed. 


302 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  through  the  power  of 
imagination  that,  when  under  the  influence  of  ex- 
cited temper,  Constance  is  not  a mere  incensed 
woman:  nor  does  she,  in  the  style  of  Volumnia, 
“lament  in  anger.  Juno-like/’  but.  rather  like  a 
sibyl  in  a fury.  Her  sarcasms  come  down  like 
thunderbolts.  In  her  famous  address  to  Aus- 
tria— 

O Lymoges!  O Austria!  thou  dost  shame 

That  bloody  spoil!  thou  slave!  thou  wretch!  thou  coward,  etc. 

it  is  as  if  she  had  concentrated  the  burning  spirit 
of  scorn,  and  dashed  it  in  his  face;  every  word 
seems  to  blister  where  it  falls.  In  the  scolding 
scene  between  her  and  Queen  Elinor,  the  laconic 
insolence  of  the  latter  is  completely  overborne  by 
the  torrent  of  bitter  contumely  which  bursts  from 
the  lips  of  Constance,  clothed  in  the  most  ener- 
getic, and  often  in  the  most  figurative  expres- 
sions^— 

Elinor.  Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France? 

Constance.  Let  me  make  answer:  Thy  usurping  son. 

Elinor.  Out,  insolent!  thy  bastard  shall  be  king; 

That  thou  may’st  be  a queen,  and  check  the  world! 

Constance.  My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true 
As  thine  was  to  thy  husband;  and  this  boy 
Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geoffrey, 

Than  thou  and  John  in  manners;  being  as  like 
As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 

My  boy  a bastard!  By  my  soul,  I think, 

His  father  never  was  so  true  begot; 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Elinor.  There’s  a good  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy  father. 

Constance.  There’s  a good  grandam,  boy,  that  would  blot 
thee. 


Constance. 


303 


Elinor.  Come  to  thy  grandam,  child! 

Constance . Do,  child;  go  to  it’  grandam,  child; 

Give  grandam  kingdom,  an  it’  grandam  will, 

Give  it  a plum,  a cherry,  and  a fig; 

There’s  a good  grandam. 

Arthur.  Good  my  mother,  peace! 

I would  that  I were  low  laid  in  my  grave; 

I am  not  worth  this  coil  that’s  made  for  me. 

Elinor.  His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he  weeps. 
Constance . Now  shame  upon  you,  whe’r  she  does  or  no! 
His  grandam’s  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother’s  shames, 
Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyes 
Which  Heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a fee; 

Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  Heaven  shall  be  brib’d 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

Elinor.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  Heaven  and  earth. 
Constance.  Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  Heaven  and  earth! 
Call  not  me  slanderer;  thou,  and  thine,  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights, 

Of  this  oppressed  boy.  This  is  thy  eldest  son’s  son, 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee. 

******* 

Elinor.  Thou  unadvised  scold,  I can  produce 
A will  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 

Constance.  Ay,  who  doubts  that?  A will!  a wicked  will; 
A woman’s  will;  a canker’d  grandam’s  will. 

King  Philip.  Peace,  lady;  pause,  or  be  more  moderate. 

And  in  a very  opposite  mood,  when  struggling 
with  the  consciousness  of  her  own  helpless  situa- 
tion, the  same  susceptible  and  excitable  fancy  still 
predominates — 

Thou  shalt  be  punish’d  for  thus  frighting  me, 

For  I am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears. 

Oppress’d  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears; 

A widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears; 

A woman,  naturally  born  to  fears; 

And  though  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jest 
With  my  vex’d  spirits,  I cannot  take  a truce, 

But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 


304  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head? 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son? 

What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine? 

Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 

Like  a proud  river  peering  o’er  his  bounds? 

Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words? 
******* 

Fellow,  be  gone;  I cannot  brook  thy  sight; 

This  news  hath  made  thee  a most  ugly  man. 

It  is  the  power  of  imagination  which  gives  so 
peculiar  a tinge  to  the  maternal  tenderness  of  Com 
stance;  she  not  only  loves  her  son  with  the  fond 
instinct  of  a mother’s  affection,  but  she  loves  him 
with  her  poetical  imagination,  exults  in  his  beauty 
and  his  royal  birth,  hangs  over  him  with  idolatry, 
and  sees  his  infant  brow  already  encircled  with 
the  diadem.  Her  proud  spirit,  her  ardent  en- 
thusiastic fancy,  and  her  energetic  self-will,  all 
combine  with  her  maternal  love  to  give  it  that 
tone  and  character  which  belongs  to  her  only: 
hence  that  most  beautiful  address  to  her  son, 
which,  coming  from  the  lips  of  Constance,  is  as 
full  of  nature  and  truth  as  of  pathos  and  poetry, 
and  which  we  could  hardly  sympathize  with  in 
any  other: 

Arthur.  I do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Constance.  If  thou,  that  bid’st  me  be  content,  wert  grim, 
Ugly,  and  sland’rous  to  thy  mother’s  womb, 

Full  of  unpleasing  blots  and  sightless  stains, 

Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 

Patch’d  with  foul  moles,  and  eye-offending  marks, 

I would  not  care — I then  would  be  content; 

For  then  I should  not  love  thee;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a crown. 

But  thou  art  fair;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy! 

Nature  and  Fortune  join’d  to  make  thee  great: 


Constance. 


305 


Of  Nature’s  gifts  thou  may’st  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose.  But  Fortune,  O! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang’d,  and  won  from  thee; 

She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck’d  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 


It  is  this  exceeding  vivacity  of  imagination 
which  in  the  end  turns  sorrow  to  frenzy.  Con- 
stance is  not  only  a bereaved  and  doting  mother, 
but  a generous  woman,  betrayed  by  her  own  rash 
confidence,  in  whose  mind  the  sense  of  injury 
mingling  with  the  sense  of  grief,  and  her  impet- 
uous temper  conflicting  with  her  pride,  combine  to 
overset  her  reason;  yet  she  is  not  mad:  and  how 
admirably,  how  forcibly,  she  herself  draws  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  frantic  violence  of  uncon- 
trolled feeling  and  actual  madness! — 

Thou  art  not  holy,  to  belie  me  so; 

I am  not  mad:  this  hair  I tear  is  mine; 

My  name  is  Constance;  I was  Geoffrey’s  wife; 

Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost! 

I am  not  mad;— I would  to  heaven  I were! 

For  then,  ’tis  like  I should  forget  myself: 

O!  if  I could,  what  grief  should  I forget! 


Not  only  has  Constance  words  at  will,  and  fast 
as  the  passionate  feelings  rise  in  her  mind  they 
are  poured  forth  with  vivid,  overpowering  elo- 
quence; but,  like  Juliet,  she  may  be  said  to  speak 
in  pictures.  For  instance — 

Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 

Like  a proud  river  peering  o’er  his  bounds? 

And  throughout  the  whole  dialogue  there  is  the 
same  overflow  of  eloquence,  the  same  splendor  of 


306  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

diction,  the  same  luxuriance  of  imagery;  yet  with 
an  added  grandeur,  arising  from  habits  of  com- 
mand, from  the  age,  the  rank,  and  the  matronly 
character  of  Constance.  Thus  Juliet  pours  forth 
her  love  like  a Muse  in  a rapture:  Constance  raves 
in  her  sorrow  like  a Pythoness  possessed  with  the 
spirit  of  pain.  The  love  of  Juliet  is  deep  and  in- 
finite as  the  boundless  sea;  the  grief  of  Constance 
is  so  great,  that  nothing  but  the  round  world  it- 
self is  able  to  sustain  it — 


I will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  prounci; 

For  grief  is  proud,  and  maxes  his  owner  stout. 

To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 

Let  kings  assemble;  for  my  grief’s  so  great, 

That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up:  here  I and  Sorrow  sit; 

Here  is  my  throne, '-bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

An  image  more  majestic,  more  wonderfully  sub- 
lime, was  never  presented  to  the  fancy;  yet  almost 
equal  as  a flight  of  poetry  is  her  apostrophe  to  the 
heavens — 

Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur’d  kings! 

A widow  cries;— be  husband  to  me,  heavens! 


And  again — 

O!  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder’s  mouth! 

Then  with  a passion  would  I shake  the  world! 

Not  only  do  her  thoughts  start  into  images,  but 
her  feelings  become  persons:  grief  haunts  her  as 
a living  presence — 


Constance. 


307 


Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me: 

Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 

Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 

Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form, 

Then,  have  I reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 

And  death  is  welcomed  as  a bridegroom;  she 
sees  the  visionary  monster  as  Juliet  saw  “the 
bloody  Tybalt  festering  in  his  shroud,”  and  heaps 
one  ghastly  image  upon  another  with  all  the  wild 
luxuriance  of  a distempered  fancy — 

O amiable  lovely  Death! 

Thou  odoriferous  stench!  sound  rottenness! 

Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night, 

Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity, 

And  I wili  kiss  thy  detestable  bones, 

And  put  my  eyeballs  in  thy  vaulty  brows; 

And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms; 

And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dust, 

And  be  a carrion  monster  like  thyself: 

Come,  grin  on  me;  knd  I will  think  thou  smil'st, 

And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife!  Misery’s  love, 

O!  come  to  me! 

Constance,  who  is  a majestic  being,  is  majestic 
in  her  very  frenzy.  Majesty  is  also  the  character- 
istic of  Hermione;  but  what  a difference  between  ^ 
her  silent,  lofty,  uncomplaining  despair,  and  the 
eloquent  grief  of  Constance,  whose  wild  lamenta- 
tions, which  come  bursting  forth  clothed  in  the 
grandest,  the  most  poetical  imagery,  not  only  melt 
hut  absolutely  electrify  us! 

On  the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  pride  and 
maternal  affection  form  the  basis  of  the  character 
of  Constance  as  it  is  exhibited  to  us;  but  that  these 
passions,  in  an  equal  degree  common  to  many  hu- 
man beings,  assume  their  peculiar  and  individual 


308  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

tinge  from  an  extraordinary  development  of  in- 
tellect and  fancy.  It  is  the  energy  of  passion 
which  lends  the  character  its  concentrated  power, 
as  it  is  the  prevalence  of  imagination  throughout 
which  dilates  it  into  magnificence. 

Some  of  the  most  splendid  poetry  to  be  met 
with  in  Shakspeare  may  be  found  in  the  parts  of 
Juliet  and  Constance;  the  most  splendid,  perhaps, 
excepting  only  the  parts  of  Lear  and  Othello;  and 
for  the  same  reason — that  Lear  and  Othello  as 
men,  and  Juliet  and  Constance  as  women,  are  dis- 
tinguished by  the  predominance  of  the  same  fac- 
ulties— passion  and  imagination. 

The  sole  deviation  from  history  which  may  be 
considered  as  essentially  interfering  with  the  truth 
of  the  situation  is  the  entire  omission  of  the  char- 
acter of  Guy  de  Thouars,  so  that  Constance  is  in- 
correctly represented  as  in  a state  of  widowhood 
at  “a  period  when,  in  point  of  fact,  she  wa.s  mar- 
ried. It  may  be  observed  that  her  marriage  took 
place  just  at  the  period  of  the  opening  of  the 
drama;  that  Guy  de  Thouars  played  no  conspicu- 
ous part  in  the  affairs  of  Bretagne  till  after  the 
death  of  Constance,  and  that  the  mere  presence  of 
this  personage,  altogether  superfluous  in  the  ac- 
tion, would  have  completely  destroyed  the 
dramatic  interest  of  the  situation;  and  what  a 
situation!  One  more  magnificent  was  never  placed 
before  the  mind's  eye  than  that  of  Constance, 
when,  deserted  and  betrayed,  she  stands  alone  in 
her  despair,  amid  her  false  friends  and  her  ruth- 
less enemies!  * The  image  of  the  mother-eagle 
wounded  and  bleeding  to  death,  yet  stretched  over 

* King  John,  Act  III,  scene  1. 


Constance. 


309 


her  young  in  an  attitude  of  defiance  while  all  the 
baser  birds  of  prey  are  clamoring  around  her  eyrie, 
gives  but  a faint  idea  of  the  moral  sublimity  of 
this  scene  Considered  merely  as  a poetical  or 
dramatic  picture,  the  grouping  is  wonderfully 
fine:  on  one  side,  the  vulture  ambition  of  that 
mean-souled  tyrant,  John;  on  the  other,  the  sel- 
fish, calculating  policy  of  Philip;  between  them, 
balancing  their  passions  in  his  hand,  the  cold, 
subtle,  heartless  Legate;  the  fiery,  reckless  Falcon- 
bridge,  the  princely  Louis;  the  still  unconquered 
spirit  of  that  wrangling  queen,  old  Elinor;  the 
bridal  loveliness  and  modesty  of  Blanche;  the 
boyish  grace  and  innocence  of  young  Arthur;  and 
Constance  in  the  midst  of  them,  in  all  the  state  of 
her  great  grief,  a grand  impersonation  of  pride 
and  passion,  helpless  at  once  and  desperate,  form 
an  assemblage  of  figures,  each  perfect  in  its  kind, 
and,  taken  all  together,  not  surpassed  for  the 
variety,  force,  and  splendor  of  the  dramatic  and 
picturesque  effect. 


QUEEN  ELINOR. 


\ 


ELINOR  of  Guienne,  and  Blanche  of  Castile, 
who  form  part  of  the  group  around  Con- 
stance', are  sketches  merely,  but  they  are 
strictly  historical  portraits,  and  full  of  truth  and 
spirit. 

At  the  period  when  Shakspeare  has  brought 
these  three  women  on  the  scene  together,  Elinor 
of  Guienne  (the  daughter  of  the  last  Duke  of 
Guienne  and  Aquitaine,  and,  like  Constance,  the 
heiress  of  a sovereign  duchy),  was  near  the  close 
of  her  long,  various,  and  unquiet  life — she  was 
nearly  seventy;  and,  as  in  early  youth  her  violent 
passions  had  overborne  both  principle  and  policy, 
so,  in  her  old  age  we  see  the  same  character,  only 
modified  by  time:  her  strong  intellect  and  love  of 
power,  unbridled  by  conscience  or  principle,  sur- 
viving when  other  passions  w~ere  extinguished, 
and  rendered  more  dangerous  by  a degree  of  sub- 
tlety and  self-command  to  which  her  youth  had 
been  a stranger.  Her  personal  and  avowed  hatred 
for  Constance1,  together  with  its  motives,  are  men- 
tioned by  the  old  historians.  Holinshed  expressly 
says  that  Queen  Elinor  was  mightily  set  against 
her  grandson  Arthur,  rather  moved  thereto  by 
envy  conceived  against  his  mother  than  by  any 
fault  of  the  young  prince,  for  that  she  knew  and 
dreaded  high  spirit  of  the  Lady  Constance. 


Queen  Elinor.  311 

Shakspeare  has  rendered  this  with  equal  spirit 
and  the  fidelity — 

Queen  Elinor.  What  now,  my  son?  have  I not  ever  said 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 

Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world, 

Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son? 

This  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole. 

With  very  easy  arguments  of  love! 

Which  now  the  manage  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

King  John.  Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right  for  us! 

Queen  Elinor.  Your  strong  possession,  much  more  than 
your  right; 

Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me: 

So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear— 

WThich  none  but  Heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 

Queen  Elinor  preserved  to  the  end  of  her  life 
her  influence  over  her  children,  and  appears  to 
have  merited  their  respect.  While  entrusted  with 
the  government,  during  the  absence  of  Richard  I., 
she  ruled  with  a steady  hand,  and  made  herself 
exceedingly  popular;  and  as  long  as  she  lived  to 
direct  the  counsels  of  her  son  John,  his  affairs 
prospered.  For  that  intemperate  jealousy  which 
converted  her  into  a domestic  firebrand,  there  was 
at  least  much  cause,  though  little  excuse.  Elinor 
had  hated  and  wronged  the  husband  of  her 
youth,*  and  she  had  afterwards  to  endure  the 
negligence  and  innumerable  infidelities  of  the 
husband  whom  she  passionately  loved;  f “and  so 

* Louis  VII.,  of  France,  whom  she  was  accustomed  to 
call,  in  contempt,  the  Monk.  Elinor’s  adventures  in  Syria, 
whither  she  accompanied  Louis  on  the  second  crusade, 
would  form  a romance. 

t Henry  IT,,  of  England.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  ob- 
serve that  the  story  of  fair  Rosamond,  as  far  as  Elinor  is 
concerned,  is  a mere  invention  of  some  ballad-maker  of  later 
times. 


B12  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

the  whirligig  of  time  brought  in  his  revenges  ” 
Elinor  died  in  1203,  a few  months  after  Con- 
stance, and  before  the  murder  of  Arthur — a crime 
which,  had  she  lived,  would  probably  never  have 
been  consummated;  for  the  nature  of  Elinor, 
though  violent,  had  no  tincture  of  the  baseness 
and  cruelty  of  her  son. 


BLANCHE. 


BLANCHE  of  Castile  was  the  daughter  of  Al- 
phonso  IX.  of  Castile,  and  the  grand- 
daughter of  Elinor.  At  the  time  that  she 
is  introduced  into  the  drama  she  was  about  fifteen, 
and  her  marriage  with  Louis  VIII.,  then  Dauphin, 
took  place  in  the  abrupt  manner  here  represented. 
It  is  not  often  that  political  marriages  have  the 
same  happy  result.  We  are  told  by  the  historians 
of  that  time  that  from  the  moment  Louis  and 
Blanche  met  they  were  inspired  by  a mutual 
passion,  and  that  during  a union  of  more  than 
twenty-six  years  they  were  never  known  to  differ, 
nor  even  spent  more  than  a single  day  asunder.* 
In  her  exceeding  beauty  and  blameless  reputa- 
tion, her  love  for  her  husband  and  strong  domes- 
tic affections,  her  pride  of  birth  and  rank,  her 
feminine  gentleness  of  deportment,  her  firmness 
of  temper,  her  religious  bigotry,  her  love  of  abso- 
lute power  and  her  upright  and  conscientious 
administration  of  it,  Blanche  greaty  resembled 
Maria  Theresa  of  Austria.  She  was,  however,  of  a 
more  cold  and  calculating  nature;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  she  was  less  amiable  as  a woman  did  she 
rule  more  happily  for  herself  and  others.  There 
cannot  be  a greater  contrast  than  between  the 
acute  understanding,  the  steady  temper,  and  the 
cool,  intriguing  policy  of  Blanche — by  which  she 

° Mezerai.  0 


313 


314  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

succeeded  in  disuniting  and  defeating  the  powers 
arrayed  against  her  and  her  infant  son — and  the 
rash  confiding  temper  and  susceptible  imagination 
of  Constance,  which  rendered  herself  and  her  son 
easy  victims  to  the  fraud  or  ambition  of  others. 
Blanche;  during  forty  years,  held  in  her  hands 
the  destinies  of  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  and 
is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  names  recorded  in 
history — but  in  what  does  she  survive  to  us,  ex- 
cept in  a name?  Nor  history,  nor  fame,  though 
“trumpet-tongued,”  could  do  for  her  what  Shak- 
speare  and  poetry  have  done  for  Constance.  The 
earthly  reign  of  Blanche  is  over,  her  sceptre 
broken,  and  her  power  departed.  When  will  the 
reign  of  Constance  cease?  when  will  her  power 
depart?  Not  while  this  world  is  a world,  and 
there  exist  in  it  human  souls  to  kindle  at  the 
touch  of  genius,  and  human  hearts  to  throb  with 

human  sympathies! 

* * ❖ * ❖ ❖ * 

There  is  no  female  character  of  any  interest  in 
the  play  of  “Kichard  II.”  The  Queen  (Isabelle 
of  France)  enacts  the  same  passive  part  in  the 
drama  that  she  does  in  history. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  “Henry  IV.”  In 
this  admirable  play  there  is  no  female  characters 
of  any  importance;  but  Lady  Percy,  the  wife  of 
Hotspur,  is  a very  lively  and  beautiful  sketch: 
she  is  sprightly,  feminine,  and  fond,  but  without 
anything  energetic  or  profound,  in  mind  or  in 
feeling.  Her  gayety  and  spirit  in  the  first  scenes 
are  the  result  of  youth  and  happiness,  and  nothing 
can  be  more  natural  than  the  utter  dejection  and 
brokenness  of  heart  which  follow  her  husband’s 


Blanche. 


315 


death:  she  is  no  heroine  for  war  or  tragedy;  she 
has  no  thought  of  revenging  her  loss;  and  even 
her  grief  has  something  soft  and  quiet  in  its 
pathos.  Her  speech  to  her  father-in-law,  North- 
umberland, in  which  she  entreats  him  “not  to  go 
to  the  wars,”  and  at  the  same  time  pronounces  the 
most  beautiful  eulogium  on  her  heroic  husband, 
is  a perfect  piece  of  feminine  eloquence,  both  in 
the  feeling  and  in  the  expression. 

Almost  every  one  knows  by  heart  Lady  Percy’s 
celebrated  address  to  her  husband,  beginning — 

O,  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone? 

and  that  of  Portia  to  Brutus,  in  “Julius  Caesar” — 

You  have  ungently,  Brutus, 

Stole  from  my  bed. 

This  situation  is  exactly  similar,  the  topics  of  re- 
monstrance are  nearly  the  same;  the  sentiments 
and  the  style  as  opposite  as  are  the  characters  of 
the  two  women.  Lady  Percy  is  evidently  accus- 
tomed to  win  more  from  her  fiery  lord  by  caresses 
than  by  reason:  he  loves  her  in  his  rough  way,  “as 
Harry  Percy’s  wife,”  but  she  has  no  real  influence 
over  him;  he  has  no  confidence  in  her — 

Lady  Percy.  In  faith, 

I’ll  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I will. 

I fear,  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
About  his  title;  and  hath  sent  for  you, 

To  line  his  enterprise,  but  if  you  go — 

Hotspur.  So  far  afoot,  I shall  be  weary,  love! 

The  whole  scene  is  admirable,  but  unnecessary 
here,  because  it  illustrates  no  point  of  character  in 


316 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

her.  Lady  Percy  has  no  character , properly  so 
called;  whereas  that  of  Portia  is  very  distinctly 
and  faithfully  drawn  from  the  outline  furnished 
by  Plutarch.  Lady  Percy’s  fond  upbraidings,  and 
her  half-playful,  half-pouting  entreaties,  scarcely 
gain  her  husband’s  attention.  Portia,  with  true 
matronly  dignity  and  tenderness,  pleads  her  right 
to  share  her  husband’s  thoughts,  and  proves  it 
too — 

I grant,  I am  a woman,  but,  withal, 

A woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife: 

I grant,  I am  a woman,  but,  withal, 

A woman  well  reputed,— Cato’s  daughter. 

Think  you,  I am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 

Being  so  father’d,  and  so  husbanded? 

******* 

Brutus.  You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife, 

As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart! 

Portia,  as  Shakspeare  has  truly  felt  and  repre- 
sented the  character,  is  but  a softened  reflection 
of  that  of  her  husband  Brutus:  in  him  we  see  an 
excess  of  natural  sensibility,  an  almost  womanish 
tenderness  of  heart,  repressed  by  the  tenets  of  his 
austere  philosophy:  a stoic  by  profession,  and  in 
reality  the  reverse — acting  deeds  against  his  na- 
ture by  the  strong  force  of  principle  and  will.  In 
Portia  there  is  the  same  profound  and  passionate 
feeling,  and  all  her  sex’s  softness  and  timidity, 
held  in  check  by  that  self-discipline,  that  stately 
dignity,  which  she  thought  became  a woman  “so 
fathered  and  so  husbanded.”  The  fact  of  her  in- 
flicting on  herself  a voluntary  wound  to  try  her 
own  fortitude  is  perhaps  the  strongest  proof  of 


Blanche. 


317 


this  disposition.  Plutarch  relates,  that  on  the 
day  on  which  Caesar  was  assassinated,  Portia  ap- 
peared overcome  with  terror,  and  even  swooned 
away,  but  did  not  in  her  emotion  utter  a word 
which  could  affect  the  conspirators  Shakspeare  has 
rendered  this  circumstance  literally — 

Portia.  I pr’ythee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate-house; 

Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone: 

Why  dost  thou  stay? 

Lucius.  To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

Portia.  I would  have  had  thee  there  and  here  again, 

Ere  I can  tell  thee  what  thou  should’st  do  there. 

0 constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side! 

Set  a huge  mountain  ’tween  my  heart  and  tongue! 

1 have  a man’s  mind,  but  a woman’s  might. 

. . . . Ah  me!  how  weak  a thing 

The  heart  of  woman  is!  O,  I grow  faint,  etc. 

There  is  another  beautiful  incident  related  by 
Plutarch  which  could  not  well  be  dramatized. 
When  Brutus  and  Portia  parted  for  the  last  time 
in  the  island  of  Nisida,  she  restrained  all  expres- 
sion of  grief  that  she  might  not  shake  his  forti- 
tude; but  afterwards,  in  passing  through  a cham- 
ber in  which  there  hung  a picture  of  Hector  and 
Andromache,  she  stopped,  gazed  upon  it  for  a 
time  with  a settled  sorrow,  and  at  length  burst 
into  a passion  of  tears.* 

If  Portia  had  been  a Christian,  and  lived  in  later 
times,  she  might  have  been  another  Lady  Russell; 

* When  at  Naples,  I have  often  stood  upon  the  rock  at 
the  extreme  point  of  Posilippo,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
little  island  of  Nisida,  and  thought  of  this  scene  till  I for- 
got the  Lazaretto  which  now  deforms  it;  deforms  it,  how- 
ever, to  the  fancy  only,  for  the  building  itself,  as  it  rises 
from  amid  the  vines,  the  cypresses  and  fig-trees  which  em- 
bosom it,  looks  beautiful  at  a distance. 


318  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

but  she  made  a poor  stoic.  Ho  factitious  or  exter- 
nal control  was  sufficient  to  restrain  such  an 
exuberance  of  sensibility  and  fancy,  and  those 
who  praise  the  philosophy  of  Portia  and  the  hero- 
ism of  her  death  certainly  mistook  the  character 
altogether.  It  is  evident,  from  the  manner  of  her 
death,  that  it  was  not  deliberate  self-destruction, 
“after  the  high  Roman  fashion,”  but  took  place  in 
a paroxysm  of  madness  caused  by  over-wrought 
and  suppressed  feeling,  grief,  terror,  and  sus- 
pense. Shakspeare  has  thus  represented  it — 

Brutus.  O,  Cassius!  I am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Cassius.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 

If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Brutus.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better:— Portia  is  dead. 

Cassius.  Ha!— Portia? 

Brutus.  She  is  dead. 

» Cassius . How  ’scaped  I killing  when  I cross’d  you  so7 
O insupportable  and  touching  loss!— 

Upon  what  sickness? 

Brutus.  Impatient  of  my  absence, 

And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Had  made  themselves  so  strong;  for  with  her  deatn 
These  tidings  came;  with  this  she  fell  distract , 

And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow’d  fire. 


So  much  for  womans  philosophy! 


MARGARET  OF  ANJOU. 


MALONE  has  written  an  essay  to  prove,  from 
external  and  internal  evidence,  that  the 
three  parts  of  “King  Henry  VI.”  were  not 
originally  written  by  Shakspeare,  but  altered  by 
him  from  two  old  plays,*  with  considerable  im- 
provements and  additions  of  his  own.  Burke,  Per- 
son, Dr.  Wharton,  and  Dr.  Farmer  pronounced  this 
piece  of  criticism  convincing  and  unanswerable, 
but  Dr.  Johnson  and  Steevens  would  not  be  con- 
vinced, and,  moreover,  have  contrived  to  answer 
the  unanswerable.  “Who  shall  decide  when  doc- 
tors disagree?”  The  only  arbiter  in  such  a case 
is  one^s  own  individual  taste  and  judgment.  To 
me  it  appears  that  the  three  parts  of  “Henry  VI.” 
have  less  of  poetry  and  passion  and  more  of  un- 
necessary verbosity  and  inflated  language  than  the 
rest  of  Shakspeare’s  works,  that  the  continual  ex- 
hibition of  treachery,  bloodshed,  and  violence  is 
revolting,  and  the  want  of  unity  of  action  and  of  a 
pervading  interest  oppressive  and  fatiguing;  but 
also  that  there  are  splendid  passages  in  the  Second 
and  Third  Parts  such  as  Shakspeare  alone  could 
have  written.  And  this  is  not  denied  by  the  most 
skeptical,  f 

♦ “The  Contention  of  the  Two  Houses  of  York  and  Lan- 
caster,” in  two  parts,  supposed  by  Malone  to  have  been 
written  about  1590. 

t I abstain  from  making  any  remarks  on  the  character  of 
Joan  of  Arc,  as  delineated  in  the  first  part  of  “Henry  VI.;” 
first,  because  I do  not  in  my  conscience  attribute  it  to 
Shakspeare;  and  secondly,  because  in  representing  her  ac- 
S19 


320 


Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

Among  the  arguments  against  the  authenticity 
of  these  plays,  the  character  of  Margaret  of  Anjou 
has  not  been  adduced,  and  yet  to  those  who  have 
studied  Shakspeare  in  his  own  spirit  it  will  appear 
the  most  conclusive  of  all.  When  we  compare 
her  with  his  other  female  characters,  we  are  struck 
at  once  by  the  want  of  family  likeness:  Shakspeare 
was  not  always  equal,  but  he  had  not  two  manners , 
as  they  say  of  painters.  I discern  his  hand  in  par- 
ticular parts,  but  I cannot  recognize  his  spirit  in 
the  conception  of  the  whole.  He  may  have  laid 
on  some  of  the  colors,  but  the  original  design  has 
a certain  hardness  and  heaviness  very  unlike  his 
usual  style.  Margaret  of  Anjou,  as  exhibited  in 
these  tragedies,  is  a dramatic  portrait  of  consider- 
able truth  and  vigor  and  consistency,  but  she  is 
not  one  of  Shakspeare’s  women.  He,  who  knew 
so  well  in  what  true  greatness  of  spirit  consisted, 
who  could  excite  our  respect  and  sympathy  even 
for  a Lady  Macbeth,  would  never  have  given  us  a 

cording  to  the  vulgar  English  traditions,  as  half  sorceress, 
half  enthusiast,  and  in  the  end  corrupted  by  pleasure  and 
ambition,  the  truth  of  history,  and  the  truth  of  nature, 
justice,  and  common  sense,  are  equally  violated.  Schiller 
has  treated  the  character  nobly;  but  in  making  Joan  the 
slave  of  passion  and  the  victim  of  love,  instead  of  the  victim 
of  patriotism,  has  committed,  I think,  a serious  error  in 
judgment  and  feeling;  and  I cannot  sympathize  with  Ma- 
dame de  Stael’s  defense  of  him  on  this  particular  point. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  this  deviation  from  the  truth  of 
things,  and  from  the  dignity  and  spotless  purity  of  the 
character.  This  young  enthusiast,  with  her  religious  rev- 
eries, her  simplicity,  her  heroism,  her  melancholy,  her  sensi- 
bility, her  fortitude,  her  perfectly  feminine  bearing  in  all 
her  exploits  (for  though  she  so  often  led  the  van  of  battle, 
unshrinking  while  death  was  all  around  her,  she  never 
struck  a blow,  nor  stained  her  consecrated  sword  with 
blood — another  point  in  which  Schiller  has  wronged  her), 
this  heroine  and  martyr,  over  whose  last  moments  we  shed 
burning  tears  of  pity  and  indignation,  remains  yet  to  be 
treated  as  a dramatic  character,  and  I know  but  one  person 
capable  of  doing  this. 


321 


Margaret  of  Anjou. 

heroine  without  a touch  of  heroism;  he  would  not 
have  portrayed  a high-hearted  woman  struggling 
unsubdued  against  the  strangest  vicissitudes  of 
fortune,  meeting  reverses  and  disasters,  such  as 
would  have  broken  the  most  masculine  spirit,  with 
unshaken  constancy,  yet  left  her  without  a single 
personal  quality  which  would  excite  our  interest 
in  her  bravely-endured  misfortunes;  and  this,  too, 
in  the  very  face  of  history.  He  would  not  have 
given  us,  in  lieu  of  the  magnanimous  queen,  the 
subtle  and  accomplished  Frenchwoman,  a mere 
“Amazonian  trull,”  with  every  coarser  feature  of 
depravity  and  ferocity;  he  would  have  redeemed 
her  from  unmingled  detestation;  he  would  have 
breathed  into  her  some  of  his  own  sweet  spirit;  he 
would  have  given  the  woman  a soul. 

The  old  chronicler  Hall  informs  us  that  Queen 
Margaret  “excelled  all  other  as  well  in  beauty  and 
favor  as  in  wit  and  policy,  and  was  in  stomach  and 
courage  more  like  to  a man  than  to  a woman.” 
He  adds,  that  after  the  espousals  of  Henry  and 
Margaret,  “the  king^s  friends  fell  from  him,  the 
lords  of  the  realm  fell  in  division  among  them- 
selves, the  commons  rebelled  against  their  natural 
prince,  fields  were  foughten,  many  thousands 
slain,  and  finally  the  king  was  deposed  and  his  son 
slain,  and  his  queen  sent  home  again  with  as  much 
misery  and  sorrow  as  she  was  received  with  pomp 
and  triumph.” 

This  passage  seems  to  have  furnished  the 
groundwork  of  the  character,  as  it  is  developed  in 
these  plays  with  no  great  depth  or  skill.  Mar- 
garet is  portrayed  with  all  the  exterior  graces  of 
her  sex:  as  bold  and  artful,  with  spirit  to  dare,  res- 


322  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

olution.  to  act,  and  fortitude  to  endure,  but  treach- 
erous, haughty,  dissembling,  vindictive,  and 
fierce.  The  bloody  struggle  for  power  in  which 
she  was  engaged,  and  the ' companionship  of  the 
ruthless  iron  men  around  her,  seem  to  have  left 
her  nothing  of  womanhood  but  the  heart  of  a 
mother — that  last  stronghold  of  our  feminine  na- 
ture! So  far,  the  character  is  consistently  drawn; 
it  has  something  of  the  power,  but  none  of  the 
flowing  ease  of  Shakspeare’s  manner.  There  are 
fine  materials  not  well  applied,  there  is  poetry  in 
some  of  the  scenes  and  speeches,  the  situations  are 
often  exceedingly  poetical,  but  in  the  character 
of  Margaret  herself  there  is  not  an  atom  of  poetry. 
In  her  artificial  dignity,  her  plausible  wit,  and  her 
endless  volubility,  she  would  remind  us  of  some  of 
the  most  admired  heroines  of  French  tragedy  but 
for  that  unlucky  box  on  the  ear  which  she  gives 
the  Duchess  of  Gio’ster — a violation  of  tragic  de- 
corum which,  of  course,  destroys  all  parallel. 

Having  said  thus  much,  I shall  point  out  some 
of  the  finest  and  most  characteristic  scenes  in 
which  Margaret  appears.  The  speech  in  which 
she  expresses  her  scorn  of  her  meek  husband,  and 
her  impatience  of  the  power  exercised  by  those 
fierce,  overbearing  barons,  York,  Salisbury,  War- 
wick, Buckingham,  is  very  fine,  and  conveys  as 
faithful  an  idea  of  those  feudal  times  as  of  the 
woman  who  speaks.  The  burst  of  female  spite 
with  which  she  concludes  is  admirable — 


Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so  much 
As  that  proud  dame,  the  Lord  Protector’s  wife. 

She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of  ladies* 


323 


Margaret  of  Anjou. 

More  like  an  empress  than  Duke  Humphrey’s  wife; 
Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen; 

She  hears  a duke’s  revenues  on  her  back, 

And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty. 

Shall  1 not  live  to  be  avenged  on  her? 

Contemptuous  base-born  callat  as  she  is, 

She  vaunted  ’mongst  her  minions  t’other  day, 

The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing  gown 
Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father’s  lands, 

Till  Suii'oik  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

Her  intriguing  spirit,  the  facility  with  which 
she  enters  into1  the  murderous  confederacy  against 
the  good  Duke  Humphrey,  the  artful  plausibility 
with  which  she  endeavors  to  turn  suspicion  from 
herself,  confounding  her  gentle  consort  by  mere 
dint  of  words,  are  exceedingly  characteristic,  but 
not  the  less  revolting. 

Her  criminal  love  for  Suffolk  (which  is  a dra- 
matic incident,  not  an  historic  fact),  gives  rise  to 
the  beautiful  parting  scene  in  the  third  act,  a 
scene  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  without  a 
thrill  of  emotion,  hurried  away  by  that  power  and 
pathos  which  forces  us  to  sympathize  with  the  elo- 
quence of  grief,  yet  excites  not  a momentary  in- 
terest either  for  Margaret  or  her  lover.  The  tin- 
governed  fury  of  Margaret  in  the  first  instance,  the 
manner  in  which  she  calls  on  Suffolk  to  curse  his 
enemies,  and  then  shrinks  back  overcome  by  the 
violence  of  the  spirit  she  had  herself  evoked,  and 
terrified  by  the  vehemence  of  his  imprecations,  the 
transition  in  her  mind  from  the  extremity  of  rage 
to  tears  and  melting  fondness,  have  been  pro- 
nounced, and  justly,  to  be  in  Shakspeare’s  own 
manner — 


L 


824  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Go,  speak  not  to  me;  even  now  be  gone.— 

O,  go  not  yet!  Even  thus  two  friends  condemn’d, 
Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves, 
Loather  a hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 

Yet  now  farewell;  and  farewell  life  with  thee! 


which  is  followed  by  that  beautiful  and  intense 
burst  of  passion  from  Suffolk — 


’Tis  not  the  land  I care  for,  wert  thou  thence; 

A wilderness  is  populous  enough, 

So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company; 

For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 

With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world; 

And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation! 

In  the  third  part,  of  “Henry  VI.,”  Margaret, 
engaged  in  the  terrible  struggle  for  her  husband’s 
throne,  appears  to  rather  more  advantage.  The 
indignation  against  Henry,  who  had  pitifully 
yielded  his  son’s  birthright,  for  the  privilege  of 
reigning  unmolested  during  his  own  life,  is  worthy 
of  her,  and  gives  rise  to  a beautiful  speech.  We 
are  here  inclined  to  sympathize  with  her;  but  soon 
after  follows  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  York; 
and  the  base  revengeful  spirit  and  atrocious 
cruelty  with  which  she  insults  over  him,  unarmed 
and  a prisoner — the  bitterness  of  her  mockery, 
and  the  unwomanly  malignity  with  which  she  pre- 
sents him  with  the  napkin  stained  with  the  blood 
of  his  youngest  son  and  “bids  the  father  wipe  his 
eyes  withal,”  turn  all  our  sympathy  into  aversion 
and  horror.  York  replies  in  the  celebrated  speech 
beginning — 


She-wolf  of  France,  but  worse  than  wolves  of  France, 
Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder’s  tooth! 


Margaret  of  Anjou.  325 

and  taunts  her  with  the  poverty  of  her  father,  the 
most  irritating  topic  he  could  have  chosen — 

Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult? 

It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen, 

Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified, 

That  beggars,  mounted,  ride  their  horse  to  death. 

’Tis  beauty,  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud; 

But,  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small: 

’Tis  virtue  that  doth  make  them  most  admir’d; 

The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wonder’d  at; 

’Tis  government,  that  makes  them  seem  divine; 

The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable. 
******* 

O,  tiger’s  heart,  wrapp’d  in  a woman’s  hide! 

How  could’st  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child 

To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  eyes  withal, 

And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a woman’s  face? 

Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiful,  and  flexible; 

Thou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless! 

( 

By  such  a woman  as  Margaret  is  here  depicted, 
such  a speech  would  he  answered  only  in  one  way 
— with  her  dagger’s  point;  and  thus  she  answers  it. 

It  is  some  comfort  to  reflect  that  this  trait  of 
ferocity  is  not  historical;  the  body  of  the  Duke  of 
York  was  found,  after  the  battle1,  among  the  heaps 
of  slain,  and  his  head  struck  off;  but  even  this  was 
not  done  by  the  command  of  Margaret, 

In  another  passage,  the  truth  and  consistency 
of  the  character  of  Margaret  are  sacrificed  to  the 
march  of  the  dramatic  action,  with  a.  very  ill  effect. 
When  her  fortunes  were  at  the  very  lowest  ebb,  and 
she  had  sought  refuge  in  the  court  of  the  French 
king,  Warwick,  her  most  formidable  enemy,  upon 
some  disgust  he  had  taken  against  Edward 
IV.,  offered  to  espouse  her  cause,  and  proposed 


32S 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

a match  between  the  prince,  her  son,  and  his 
daughter  Anne  of  Warwick — the  “gentle  Lady 
Anne”  who  figures  in  “Richard  III.”  In  the  play, 
Margaret  embraces  the  offer  without  a moment’s 
hesitation;*  we  are  disgusted  by  her  versatile 
policy,  and  a meanness  of  spirit  in  no  way  allied 
to  the  magnanimous  forgiveness  of  her  terrible 
adversary.  The  Margaret  of  history  sternly  re- 
sisted this  degrading  expedient.  She  could  not, 
she  said,  pardon  from  her  heart  the  man  who  had 
been  the  primary  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes. 
She  mistrusted  Warwick,  despised  him  for  the 
motives  of  his  revolt  from  Edward,  and  considered 
that  to  match  her  son  into  the  family  of  her  enemy 
from  mere  policy,  was  a species  of  degradation. 
It  took  Louis  XI.,  with  all  his  art  and  eloquence, 
fifteen  days  to  wring  a reluctant  consent,  accom- 
panied with  tears,  from  this  high-hearted  woman. 

The  speech  of  Margaret,  to  her  council  of  gen- 
erals before  the  battle  of  Tewkesbury  (act  5,  scene 
5)  is  as  remarkable  a specimen  of  false  rhetoric,  as 
her  address  to  the  soldiers  on  the  eve  of  the  fight, 
is  of  true  and  passionate  eloquence. 

*-  See  “Henry  V.,”  Part  III,  act  3,  scene  3. 

Queen  Margaret.  Warwick,  these  words  have  turn’d  my 
hnte  to  love, 

And  I forgive  and  quite  forget  old  faults, 

And  jov  that  thou  becom’st  King  Henry’s  friend. 

The  Duchess.  O,  Harry’s  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  woes; 

God  witness  with  me,  I have  wept  for  thine. 

Queen  Margaret.  Bear  with  me,  I am  hungry  for  revenge, 

And  now  I cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 

Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  killed  my  Edward; 

Thy  other  Edward  dead  to  quit  my  Edward: 

Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 

Match’d  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 

Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb’d  my  Edward; 

And  the  beholders  of  this  tragic  play, 

The  adulterate  Hastings.  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey* 

Untimely  smother’d  in  their  dusky  graves. 


327 


Margaret  of  Anjou. 

She  witnesses  the  final  defeat  of  her  army,  the 
massacre  of  her  adherents,  and  the  murder  of  her 
son;  and  though  the  savage  Richard  would  will- 
ingly have  put  an  end  to  her  misery,  and  exclaims 
very  pertinently — 

Why  should  she  li-ve  to  fill  the  world  with  words? 

she  is  dragged  forth  unharmed,  a woful  spectacle 
of  extremest  wretchedness,  to  which  death  would 
have  been  an  undeserved  relief.  If  we  compare 
the  clamorous  and  loud  exclaims  of  Margaret  after 
the  slaughter  of  her  son,  to  the  ravings  of  Con- 
stance, we  shall  perceive  where  Shakspeare’s 
genius  did  not  preside,  and  where  it  did.  Margaret, 
in  bold  defiance  of  history,  but  with  fine  dramatic 
effect,  is  introduced  again  in  the  gorgeous  and 
polluted  court  of  Edward  IV.  There  she 
stalks  around  the  seat  of  her  former  greatness,  like 
a terrible  phantom  of  departed  majesty,  un- 
crowned, unsceptred,  desolate,  powerless — or 
like  a vampire  thirsting  for  blood — or  like  a grim 
prophetess  of  evil,  imprecating  that  ruin  on  the 
head  of  her  enemies,  which  she  lived  to  see  real- 
ized. The  scene  following  the  murder  of  the 
princes  in  the  Tower,  in  which  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  the  Duchess  of  York  sit  down  on  the  ground 
bewailing  their  desolation,  and  Margaret  suddenly 
appears  from  behind  them,  like  the  very  personi- 
fication of  woe,  and  seats  herself  beside  them  rev- 
eling in  their  despair,  is,  in  the  general  concep- 
tion and  effect,  grand  and  appalling — 


Richard  yet  lives,  hell’s  black  intelligencer. 
Only  reserved  their  factor,  to  buy  souls 
And  send  them  thither:  But  at  hand,  at  hand, 


328  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end; 

Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray, 

To  have  him  suddenly  convey’d  from  hence.— 

Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  God,  I pray, 

That  I may  live  to  say,  The  dog  is  dead.* 

She  should  have  stopped  here;  but  the  effect 
thus  powerfully  excited  is  marred  and  weakened 
by  so  much  superfluous  rhetoric,  that  we  are 
tempted  to  exclaim  with  the  old  Duchess  of 
York— 


Why  shall  calamity  be  full  of  words? 

* Horace  Walpole  observes,  that  “it  is  evident  from  the 
conduct  of  Shakspeare  that  the  House  of  Tudor  retained  all 
their  Lancasterian  prejudices  even  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  In  his  play  of  ‘Richard  the  Third’  he  seems  to 
deduce  the  woes  of  the  House  of  York  from  the  curses 
which  Queen  Margaret  had  vented  against  them;  and  he 
could  not  give  that  weight  to  her  curses,  without  supposing 
a right  in  her  to  utter  them.” 


QUEEN  KATHERINE  OF  ARRAGON. 


TO  have  a just  idea  of  the  accuracy  and  beauty 
of  this  historical  portrait,  we  ought  to 
bring  immediately  before  us  those  circum- 
stances of  Katherine’s  life  and  times,  and  those 
parts  of  her  character,  which  belong  to  a period 
previous  to  the  opening  of  the  play.  We  shall 
then  be  better  able  to  appreciate  the  skill  with 
which  Shakspeare  has  applied  the  materials  before 
him. 

Katherine  of  Arragon,  the  fourth  and  youngest 
daughter  of  Ferdinand,  king  of  Arragon,  and  Isa- 
bella of  Castile,  was  born  at  Alcala,  whither  her 
mother  had  retired  to  winter  after  one  of  the  most 
terrible  campaigns  of  the  Moorish  war — that  of 
1485. 

Katherine  had  derived  from  nature  no  dazzling 
qualities  of  mind,  and  no  striking  advantages  of 
person.  She  inherited  a tincture  of  Queen  Isa- 
bella’s haughtiness  and  obstinacy  of  temper,  but 
neither  her  beauty  nor  her  splendid  talents.  Her 
education  under  the  direction  of  that  extraordi- 
nary mother  had  implanted  in  her  mind  the  most 
austere  principles  of  virtue,  the  highest  ideas  of 
female  decorum,  the  most  narrow  and  bigoted  at- 
tachment to  the  forms  of  religion,  and  that  ex- 
cessive pride  of  birth  and  rank  which  distinguished 
so  particularly  her  family  and  her  nation.  In 
other  respects  her  understanding  was  strong  and 

829 


330  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

tier  judgment  clear.  The  natural  turn  of  her 
mind  was  simple,  serious,  and  domestic,  and  all 
the  impulses  of  her  heart  kindly  and  benevolent. 
Such  was  Katherine;  such,  at  least,  she  appears  on 
a reference  to  the  chronicles  of  her  times,  and  par- 
ticularly from  her  own  letters,  and  the  papers 
written  or  dictated  by  herself  which  relate  to  her 
divorce;  all  of  which  are  distinguished  by  the  same 
artless  simplicity  of  style,  the  same  quiet  good 
sense,  the  same  resolute,  yet  gentle  spirit  and  fer- 
went  piety. 

When  five  years  old  Katherine  was  solemnly 
affianced  to  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest 
son  of  Henry  VII.;  and  in  the  year  1501  she 
landed  in  England,  after  narrowly  escaping  ship- 
wreck on  the  southern  coast,  from  which  every 
adverse  wind  conspired  to  drive  her.  She  was  re- 
ceived in  London  with  great  honor,  and  imme- 
diately on  her  arrival  united  to  the  young  prince. 
He  was  then  fifteen,  and  Katherine  in  her  seven- 
teenth year. 

Arthur,  as  it  is  well  known,  survived  his  mar- 
riage only  five  months;  and  the  reluctance  of 
Henry  VII.  to  refund  the  splendid  dowry  of  the 
Infanta,  and  forego'  the  advantages  of  an  alliance 
with  the  most  powerful  prince  of  Europe,  sug- 
gested the  idea  of  uniting  Katherine  to  his  second 
son,  Henry:  after  some  hesitation,  a dispensation 
was  procured  from  the  Pope1,  and  she  was  be- 
trothed to  Henry  in  her  eighteenth  year.  The 
prince,  who  was  then  only  twelve  years  old,  re- 
sisted as  far  as  he  was  able  to  do  so,  and  appears  to 
have  really  felt  a degree  of  horror  at  the  idea  of 
marrving  his  brother’s  widow.  Kor  was  the  mind 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  SSI 

of  King  Henry  at  rest;  as  his  health  declined,  his 
conscience  reproached  him  with  the  equivocal  na- 
ture of  the  union  into  which  he  had  forced  his 
son,  and  the  vile  motives  of  avarice  and.  expediency 
which  had  governed  him  on  this  occasion.  A. 
short  time  previous  to  his  death  he  dissolved  the 
engagement,  and  even  caused  Henry  to  sign  a 
paper  in  which  he  solemnly  renounced  all  idea  of 
a future  union  with  the  Infanta.  It  is  observable 
that  Henry  signed  this  paper  with  reluctance,  and 
that  Katherine,  instead  of  being  sent  back  to  her 
own  country,  still  remained  in  England. 

It  appears  that  Henry,  who  was  now  about 
seventeen,  had  become  interested  for  Katherine^ 
who  was  gentle  and  amiable.  The  difference  of 
years  was  rather  a circumstance  in  her  favor;  for 
Henry  was  just  at  that  age  when  a youth  is  most 
likely  to  be  captivated  by  a woman  older  than 
himself;  and  no  sooner  was  he  required  to  re- 
nounce her  than  the  interest  she  had  gradually 
gained  in  his  affections  became;  by  opposition,  ai 
strong  passion.  Immediately  after  his  father’s 
death  he.  declared  his  resolution  to  take  for  his 
wife  the  Lady  Katherine  of  Spain,  and  none  other* 
and  when  the  matter  was  discussed  in  council,  it: 
was  urged  that,  besides  the  many  advantages  of 
the  match  in  a political  point  of  view,  she  ha$ 
given  so  “much  proof  of  virtue  and  sweetness  of 
condition,  as  they  knew  not  where  to  parallel 
her.”  About  six  weeks  after  his  accession,  June 
3,  1509,  the  marriage  was  celebrated  with  trrfy 
royal  splendor,  Henry  being  then  eighteen,  and 
Katherine'  in  her  twenty-fourth  year. 

It  has  been  said  with  truth  that  if  Henry  had 


332  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

died  whie  Katherine  was  yet  his  wife  and  Wolsey 
his  minister,  he  would  have  left  behind  him  the 
character  of  a magnificent,  popular,  and  accom- 
plished prince,  instead  of  that  of  the  most  hate- 
ful ruffian  and  tyrant  who  ever  swayed  these 
realms.  Notwithstanding  his  occasional  infideli- 
ties, and  his  impatience  at  her  midnight  vigils, 
her  long  prayers,  and  her  religious  austerities, 
Katherine  and  Henry  lived  in  harmony  together. 
He  was  fond  of  openly  displaying  his  respect  and 
love  for  her;  and  she  exercised  a strong  and  salu- 
tary influence  over  his  turbulent  and  despotic 
spirit.  When  Henry  set  out  on  his  expedition  to 
France,  in  1513,  he  left  Katherine  regent  of  the 
kingdom  during  his  absence,  with  full  powers  to 
carry  on  the  war  agains  the  Scots;  and  the  Earl  of 
Surrey  at  the  head  of  the  army,  as  her  lieutenant- 
general.  It  is  curious  to  find  Katherine — the 
pacific,  domestic,  and  unpretending  Katherine — 
describing  herself  as  having  “her  heart  set  to  war,” 
and  “horrible  busy”  with  making  “standards,  ban- 
ners, badges,  scarfs,  and  the  like.”  * Nor  was 
this  mere  silken  preparation — mere  dalliance  with 
the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war;  for,  within  a 
few  weeks  afterwards,  her  general  defeated  the 
Scots  in  the  famous  batte  of  Flodden  Field,  where 
James  IY.  and  most  of  his  nobility  were  slain,  f 

Katherine’s  letter  to  Henry,  announcing  this 
event,  so  strikingly  displays  the  piety  and  tender- 
ness, the  quiet  simplicity  and  real  magnanimity 

* See  her  letters  in  Ellis’s  Collection. 

f Under  similar  circumstances,  one  of  Katherine’s  prede* 
cessors,  Philippa  of  Hainault,  had  gained  in  her  husband’s 
absence  the  battle  of  Neville  Cross,  in  which  David  Bruce 
was  taken  prisoner. 


333 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon. 

of  her  character  that  there  cannot  he  a more  apt 
and  beautiful  illustration  of  the  exquisite  truth 
and  keeping  of  Shakspeare’s  portrait — 

“Sir, 

“My  Lord  Howard  hath  sent  me  a letter, 
open  to  your  Grace,  within  one  of  mine,  by  the 
which  ye  shall  see  at  length  the  great  victory  that 
our  Lord  hath  sent  your  subjects  in  your  absence: 
and  for  this  cause  it  is  no  need  herein  to  trouble 
your  Grace  with  long  writing;  but  to  my  thinking 
this  battle  hath  been  to  your  Grace,  and  all  your 
realm,  the  greatest  honor  that  could  be,  and  more 
than  ye  should  win  all  the  crown  of  France; 
thanked  be  God  for  it!  And  I am  sure  your  Grace 
forgetteth  not  to  do  this,  which  shall  be  cause  to 
send  you  many  more  such  great  victories,  as  I trust 
he  shall  do.  My  husband,  for  haste,  with  Kouge- 
cross,  I could  not  send  your  Grace  the  piece  of  the 
King  of  Scot’s  coat,  which  John  Glyn  now  bring- 
eth.  In  this  your  Grace  shall  see  how  I can  keep 
my  promise,  sending  you  for  your  banners  a king’s 
coat.  I thought  to  send  himself  unto  you,  but 
our  Englishmen’s  hearts  would  not  suffer  it.  It 
should  have  been  better  for  him  to  have  been  in 
peace  than  have  this  reward;  but  all  that  God 
sendeth  is  for  the  best.  My  Lord  of  Surrey,  my 
Henry,  would  fain  know  your  pleasure  in  the 
burying  of  the  King  of  Scots’  body,  for  he  hath 
written  to  me  so.  With  the  next  messenger  your 
Grace’s  pleasure  may  be  herein  known.  And  with 
this  I make  an  end,  praying  God  to  send  you  home 
shortly;  for  without  this,  no  joy  here  can  be  ac- 
complished, and  for  the  same  I pray.  And  now 


834  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

go  to  our  Lady  at  Walsyngham,  that  I promised  so 
long  ago  to  see. 

“At  Woburn,  the  16th  day  of  September  (1513). 

“I  send  your  Grace  herein  a bill,  found  in  a 
Seottish-man’s  purse,  of  such  things  as  the  French 
king  sent  to  the  said  King  of  Scots  to  make  war 
against  you,  beseeching  you  to  send  Mathew  hither 
as  soon  as  this  messenger  cometh  with  tidings  of 
your  Grace. 

“Your  humble  wife  and  true  servant, 

“Katherine/5  * 

The  legality  of  the  king’s  marriage  with  Kath- 
erine remained  undisputed  till  1527.  In  the 
course  of  that  year  Anna  Bullen  first  appeared  at 
court,  and  was  appointed  maid  of  honor  to  the 
queen;  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  did  Henry’s 
union  with  his  brother’s  wife  “creep  too  near  his 
conscience.”  In  the  following  year  he  sent  special 
messengers  to  Home  with  secret  instructions:  they 
Were  required  to  discover  (among  other  “hard 
questions”)  whether,  if  the  queen  entered  a reli- 
gious life  the  king  might  have  the  Pope’s  dispen- 
sation to  marry  again;  and  whether,  if  the  king 
(for  the  better  inducing  the  queen  thereto)  would 
enter  himself  into  a religious  life,  the  Pope  would 
dispense  with  the  king’s  vow  and  leave  her  there? 

Poor  Katherine!  We  are  not  surprised  to  read 
that  when  she  understood  what  was  intended 
against  her,  “she  labored  with  all  those  passions 
which  jealousy  of  the  king’s  affection,  sense  of  her 

* Ellis’s  Collection.  We  must  keep  in  mind  that  Katherine 
was  a foreigner,  and  till  after  she  was  seventeen  never 
spoke  or  wrote  a word  of  English. 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  335 

own  honor,  and  the  legitimation  of  her  daughter,, 
could  produce,  laying  in  conclusion  the  whole 
fault  on  the  cardinal.”  It  is  elsewhere  said  that 
Wo-lsey  bore  the  queen  ill-will,  in  consequence  of 
her  reflecting  with  some  severity  on  his  haughty 
temper  and  very  unclerical  life. 

The  proceedings  were  pending  for  nearly  s lx 
years,  and  one  of  the  causes  of  this  long  delay,  in 
spite  of  Henry’s  impatient  and  despotic  character^ 
is  worth  noting.  The  old  chronicle  tells  us,  that 
though  the  men  generally,  and  more  particuarly 
the  priests  and  the  nobles,  sided  with  Henry  in 
this  matter,  yet  all  the  ladies  of  England  were 
against  it.  They  justly  felt  that  the  honor  and 
welfare  of  no  woman  was  secure  if,  after  twenty 
years  of  union,  she  might  he  thus  deprived  of  all 
her  rights  as  a wife:  the  clamor  became  so  loud 
and  general  that  the  king  was  obliged  to  yield  ta 
it  for  a time,  to  stop  the  proceedings,  and  to  ban- 
ish Anna  Bullen  from  the  court. 

Cardinal  Campeggio,  called  by  Shakspeare  Cam- 
peius,  arrived  in  England  in  October,  1528.  He 
at  first  endeavored  to  persuade  Katherine'  to  avoid 
the  disgrace  and  danger  of  contesting  her  mar- 
riage, by  entering  a religious  house;  but  she  re- 
jected his  advice  with  strong  expressions  of  dis- 
dain. “I  am,”  said  she,  “the  king’s  true  wife,  and 
to  him  married;  and  if  all  doctors  were  dead,  or 
law  or  learning  far  out  of  men’s  minds,  at  the  time 
of  our  marriage,  yet  I cannot  htink  that  the  court 
of  Rome,  and  the  whole  Church  of  England,  would 
have  consented  to  a thing  unlawful  and  detestable, 
as  you  call  it.  Still  I say  I am  his  wife,  and  for 
him  will  I pray.” 


336  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

About  two  years  afterwards  Wolsey  died  (in 
November,  1530);  the  king  and  queen  met  for  the 
last  time  on  the  14th  of  July,  1531.  Until  that 
period  some  outward  show  of  respect  and  kindness 
had  been  maintained  between  them;  but  the  king 
then  ordered  her  to  repair  to  a private  residence, 
and  no  longer  to  consider  herself  as  his  lawful  wife. 
“To  which  the  virtuous  and  mourning  queen  re- 
plied no  more  than  this,  that  to  whatever  place 
she  removed,  nothing  could  remove  her  from 
being  the  king’s  wife.  And  so  they  bid  each  other 
farewell;  and  from  this  time  the  king  never  saw 
her  more.”  * He  married  Anna  Bullen  in  1532, 
while  the  decision  relating  to  his  former  marriage 
was  still  pending.  The  sentence  of  divorce  to 
wdiich  Katherine  never  would  submit  was  finally 
pronounced  by  Cranmer  in  1533;  and  the  unhappy 
queen,  whose  health  had  been  gradually  declining 
through  these  troubles  of  heart,  died  January  29, 
1536,  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  her  age. 

Thus  the  action  of  the  play  of  “Henry  VIII.” 
includes  events  which  occurred  from  the  impeach- 
ment of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in  1521,  to  the 
death  of  Katherine  in  1536.  In  making  the  death 
of  Katherine  precede  the  birth  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, Shakspeare  has  committed  an  anachronism 
not  only  pardonable  but  necessary.  We  must  re- 
member that  the  construction  of  the  play  required 
a happy  termination;  and  that  the  birth  of  Eliza- 
beth, before  or  after  the  death  of  Katherine,  in- 
volved the  question  of  her  legitimacy.  By  this 
slight  deviation  from  the  real  course  of  events, 
Shakspeare  has  not  perverted  historic  facts,  but 

• Hairs  Chronicle. 


337 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon. 

merely  sacrificed  them  to  a higher  principle;  and 
in  doing  so  has  not  only  preserved  dramatic  pro- 
priety and  heightened  the  poetical  interest,  but 
has  given  a strong  proof  both  of  his  delicacy  and 
his  judgment. 

If  we  also  call  to  mind  that  in  this  play  Kath- 
erine is  properly  the  heroine,  and  exhibited  from 
first  to  last  as  the  very  “queen  of  earthly  queens;” 
that  the  whole  interest  is  thrown  round  her  and 
Wolsey — the  one  the  injured  rival,  the  other  the 
enemy  of  Anna  Bullen;  and  that  it  was  written 
in  the  reign  and  for  the  court  of  Elizabeth,  we 
shall  yet  further  appreciate  the  moral  greatness  of 
the  poet’s  mind,  which  disdained  to  sacrifice  jus- 
tice and  the  truth  of  nature  to  any  time-serving 
expediency. 

Schlegel  observes  somewhere,  that  in  the  literal 
accuracy  and  apparent  artlessness  with  which 
Shakspeare  has  adapted  some  of  the  events  and 
characters  of  history  to  his  dramatic  purposes,  he 
has  shown  equally  his  genius  and  his  wisdom. 
This,  like  most  of  Schlegel’s  remarks,  is  profound 
and  true;  and  in  this  respect  Katherine  of  Arragon 
may  rank  as  the  triumph  of  Shakspeare’s  genius 
and  his  wisdom.  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole 
range  of  poetical  fiction  in  any  respect  resembling 
or  approaching  her;  there  is  nothing  comparable, 
I suppose,  but  Katherine’s  own  portrait  by  Hol- 
bein, which,  equally  true  to  the  life,  is  yet  as  far 
inferior  as  Katherine’s  person  was  inferior  to  her 
mind.  Not  only  has  Shakspeare  given  us  here  a 
delineation  as  faithful  as  it  is  beautiful,  of  a pe- 
culiar modification  of  character,  but  he  has  be- 
queathed us  a precious  moral  lesson  in  this  proof 


338  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

that  virtue  alone  (by  which  I mean  here  the  union 
of  truth  or  conscience  with  benevolent  affection — • 
the  one  the  highest  law,  the  other  the  purest  im- 
pulse of  the  soul) — that  such  virtue  is  a sufficient 
source  of  the  deepest  pathos  and  power  without 
any  mixture  of  foreign  or  external  ornament:  for 
who  but  Shakspeare  would  have  brought  before  us 
a queen  and  a heroine  of  tragedy,  stripped  her  of 
all  pomp  of  place  and  circumstance,  dispensed 
with  all  the  usual  sources  of  poetical  interest,  as 
youth,  beauty,  grace,  fancy,  commanding  intellect; 
and  without  any  appeal  to  our  imagination,  with- 
out any  violation  of  historical  truth,  or  any  sacri- 
fices of  the  other  dramatic  personages  for  the  sake 
of  effect,  could  depend  on  the  moral  principle 
alone  to  touch  the  very  springs  of  feeling  in  our 
bosoms,  and  melt  and  elevate  our  hearts  through 
the  purest  and  holiest  impulses  of  our  nature? 

The  character,  when  analyzed,  is,  in  the  first 
place,  distinguished  by  truth.  I do  not  only 
mean  its  truth  to  nature,  or  its  relative  truth  aris- 
ing from  its  historic  fidelity  and  dramatic  consist- 
ency, but  truth  as  a quality  of  the  soul;  this  is  the 
basis  of  the  character.  We  often  hear  it  re- 
marked, that  those  who  are  themselves  perfectly 
true  and  artless,  are  in  this  world  the  more  easily 
and  frequently  deceived — a commonplace  fallacy: 
for  we  shall  ever  find  that  truth  is  as  undeceived 
as  it  is  undeceiving,  and  that  those  who  are  true 
to  themselves  and  others,  may  now  and  then  be 
mistaken,  or,  in  particular  instances,  duped,  by  the 
intervention  of  some  other  affection  or  quality  of 
the  mind:  but  they  are  generally  free  from  il- 
lusion, and  they  are  seldom  imposed  upon  in  the 


339 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon. 

long  run  by  the  shows  of  things  and  superfices  of 
characters.  It  is  by  this  integrity  of  heart  and 
clearness  of  understanding,  this  light  of  truth 
within  her  own  soul,  and  not  through  any  acute- 
ness of  intellect,  that  Katherine  detects  and  ex- 
poses the  real  character  of  Wolsey,  though  unable 
either  to  unravel  his  designs  or  defeat  them — 

My  lord,  my  lord, 

I am  a simple  woman,  much  too  week 

T’  oppose  your  cunning. 

She  rather  intuitively  feels  than  knows  his  duplic- 
ity, and  in  the  dignity  of  her  simplicity  she  towers 
above  his  arrogance  as  much  as  she  scorns  his 
crooked  policy.  With  this  essential  truth  are 
combined  many  other  qualities,  natural  or  ac- 
quired, all  made  out  with  the  same  uncompromis- 
ing breadth  of  execution  and  fidelity  of  pencil, 
united  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  feeling.  For 
instance,  the  apparent  contradiction  arising  from 
the  contrast  between  Katherine’s  natural  disposi- 
tion and  the  situation  in  wdiich  she  is  placed;  her 
lofty  Castilian  pride  and  her  extreme  simplicity  of 
language  and  deportment;  the  inflexible  resolution 
with  which  she  asserts  her  right,  and  her  soft 
resignation  to  unkindness  and  wrong;  her  warmth 
of  temper  breaking  through  the  meekness  of  a 
spirit  subdued  by  a deep  sense  of  religion,  and  a 
degree  of  austerity  tinging  her  real  benevolence — 
all  these  qualities,  opposed  yet  harmonizing,  has 
Shakspeare  placed  before  us  in  a few  admirable 
scenes. 

Katherine  is  at  first  introduced  as  pleading  be- 
fore the  king  in  behalf  of  the  commonalty,  who 


340  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

had  been  driven  by  the  extortions  of  Wolsey  into 
some  illegal  excesses.  In  this  scene,  which  is  true 
to  history,  we  have  her  upright  reasoning  mind, 
her  steadiness  of  purpose,  her  piety  and  benev- 
olence, placed  in  a strong  light.  The  unshrinking 
dignity  with  which  she  opposes  without  descend- 
ing to  brave  the  cardinal,  the  stern  rebuke  ad- 
dressed to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor,  are 
finely  characteristic;  and  by  thus  exhibiting  Kath- 
erine as  invested  with  all  her  conjugal  rights  and 
influence  and  royal  state,  the  subsequent  situations 
are  rendered  more  impressive.  She  is  placed  in 
the  first  instance  on  such  a height  in  our  esteem 
and  reverence1,  that  in  the  midst  of  her  abandon- 
ment and  degradation,  and  the  profound  pity  she 
afterwards  inspires,  the  first  effect  remains  unim- 
paired, and  she  never  falls  beneath  it. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  we  are  pre- 
pared for  the  proceedings  of  the  divorce,  and  our 
respect  for  Katherine  is  heightened  by  the  general 
sympathy  for  “the  good  queen,”  as  she  is  expres- 
sively entitled,  and  by  the  following  beautiful 
eulogium  on  her  character  uttered  by  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk — 


He  (Wolsey)  counsels  a divorce— the  loss  of  her 
That  like  a jewel  hath  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre. 

Of  her  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with.  Even  of  her, 
That  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  king. 


The  scene  in  which  Anna  Bullen  is  introduced 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  341 

as  expressing  her  grief  and  sympathy  for  her  royal 
mistress  is  exquisitely  graceful — 

Here’s  the  pang  that  pinches: 

His  highness  having  lived  so  long  with  her,  and  she 
So  good  a lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonor  of  her— by  my  life. 

She  never  knew  harm  doing!  O now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron’d, 

Still  grooving  in  a majesty  and  pomp— the  which 
To  leave  is  a thousandfold  more  bitter  than 
’Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire.  After  this  process, 

To  give  her  the  avaunt!  it  is  a pity 
Would  move  a monster. 

Old  Lady.  Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  O,  God’s  will!  much  better 

She  ne’er  had  known  pomp:  though  it  be  temporal, 

Yet  if  that  quarrel,  fortune,  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  ’tis  a sufferance,  panging 
As  soul  and  body’s  severing. 

Old  Lady.  Alas,  poor  lady! 

She’s  a stranger  now  again. 

Anne.  So  much  the  more 

Must  pity  drop  upon  her.  Verily, 

I swear  ’tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 

And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 

Than  to  be  perk’d  up  in  a glistening  grief, 

And  wear  a golden  sorrow. 


How  completely,  in  the  few  passages  appro- 
priated to  Anna  Bullen, is  her  character  portrayed! 
with  what  a delicate  and  yet  luxuriant  grace  is  she 
sketched  off,  with  her  gayety  and  her  beauty,  her 
levity,  her  extreme  mobility,  her  sweetness  of  dis- 
position, her  tenderness  of  heart,  and,  in  short,  all 
her  femalities ! How  nobly  has  Shakspeare  done 
justice  to  the  two  women,  and  heightened  our  in- 
terest in  both,  by  placing  the  praises  of  Katherine 


342  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

in  the  month  of  Anna  Bullen!  and  how  character- 
istic of  the  latter,  that  she  shonld  first  express  un- 
bounded pity  for  her  mistress,  insisting  chiefly  on 
her  fall  from  her  regal  state  and  worldly  pomp, 
thus  betraying  her  own  disposition — 

For  she  that  had  all  the  fair  parts  of  woman, 

Had,  too,  a woman’s  heart;  which  ever  yet 

Affected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty. 

That  she  should  call  the  loss  of  temporal  pomp, 
once  enjoyed,  “a  sufferance  equal  to  soul  and 
body’s  severing;”  that  she  should  immediately  pro- 
test that  she  would  not  herself  be  a queen — “No, 
good  troth!  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven!’' 
— and  not  long  afterwards  ascend  without  reluct- 
ance that  throne  and  bed  from  which  her  royal 
mistress  had  been  so  cruelly  divorced! — how  nat- 
ural! The  portrait  is  not  less  true  and  masterly 
than  that  of  Katherine;  but  the  character  is  over- 
borne by  the  superior  moral  firmness  and  intrinsic 
excellence  of  the  latter.  That  we  may  be  more 
fully  sensible  of  this  contrast,  the  beautiful  scene 
just  alluded  to  immediately  precedes  Katherine’s 
trial  at  Blackfriars,  and  the  description  of  Anna 
Bullen’s  triumphant  beauty  at  her  coronation  is 
placed  immediately  before  the  dying  scene  of 
Katherine;  yet  with  equal  good  taste  and  good 
feeling  Shakspeare  has  constantly  avoided  ail  per- 
sonal collision  between  the  two  characters;  nor 
does  Anna  Bullen  ever  appear  as  queen  except  in 
the  pageant  of  the  procession,  which  in  reading 
the  play  is  seareelv  noticed. 

To  return  to  Katherine.  The  whole  of  the 
trial  scene  is  given  nearly  verbatim  from  the  old 


343 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon. 

chronicles  and  records;  but  the  dryness  and  harsh- 
ness of  the  law  proceedings  is  tempered  at  once 
and  elevated  by  the  genius  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
poet.  It  appears,  on  referring  to  the  historical 
authorities,  that,  when  the  affair  was  first  agi- 
tated in  council,  Katherine  replied  to  the  long  ex- 
positions and  theological  sophistries  of  her  oppo- 
nents with  resolute  simplicity  and  composure:  “I 
am  a woman,  and  lack  wit  and  learning  to  answer 
these  opinions;  but  I am  sure  that  neither  the 
king’s  father  nor  my  father  would  have  conde- 
scended to  our  marriage,  if  it  had  been  judged  un- 
lawful. As  to  your  saying  that  I should  put  the 
cause  to  eight  persons  of  this  realm,  for  quietness 
of  the  king’s  conscience;  I pray  Heaven  to  send 
his  Grace  a quiet  conscience:  and  this  shall  be 
your  answer,  that  I say  I am  his  lawful  wife,  and 
to  him  lawfully  married,  though  not  worthy  of  it: 
and  in  this  point  I will  abide,  till  the  court  of 
Rome;  which  was  privy  to  the  beginning,  have 
made1  a final  ending  of  it.”  * 

Katherine’s  appearance  in  the  court  at  Black- 
friars,  attended  by  a noble  troop  of  ladies  and 
prelates  of  her  council  and  her  refusal  to  answer 
the  citation,  are  historical,  f Her  speech  to  the 
king — 

Sir.  I desire  you,  do  me  right  and  justice; 

And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me:  etc.  etc. 

* Hall’s  “Chronicle,”  p.  781. 

f The  court  at  Blackfriars  sat  on  the  28th  of  May,  1529. 
“The  queen  being  called,  accompanied  by  the  four  bishops 
and  others  of  her  council,  and  a great  company  of  ladies  and 
gentlewomen  following  her;  and  after  her  obeisance,  sadly 
and  with  great  gravity,  she  appealed  from  them  to  the  court 
of  Rome.” — See  Hall  and  Cavendish’s  “Life  of  Wolsev.” 
The  account  which  Hume  gives  of  this  scene  is  very  elegant, 
but  after  the  affecting  naivete  of  the  old  chronicler,  it  Is 
very  cold  and  unsat isfaetorv. 


344  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

is  taken  word  for  word  (as  nearly  as  the  change 
from  prose  to  bank  verse  would  allow) , from  the 
old  record  in  Hall.  It  would  have  been  easy  for 
Shakspeare  to  have  exalted  his  own  skill,  by  throw- 
ing a coloring  of  poetry  and  eloquence  into  this 
speech,  without  altering  the  sense  or  sentiment; 
but  by  adhering  to  the  calm  argumentative  sim- 
plicity of  manner  and  diction  natural  to  the 
woman,  he  has  preserved  the  truth  of  character 
without  lessening  the  pathos  of  the  situation.  Her 
challenging  Wolsey  as  a “foe  to  truth,”  and  her 
very  expressions,  “I  utterly  refuse — yea,  from  my 
soul  abhor  you  for  my  judge,”  are  taken  from  fact. 
The  sudden  burst  of  indignant  passion  towards  the 
close  of  this  scene — 

In  one  who  ever  yet 

Had  stood  to  charity,  and  display’d  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O’ertopping  woman’s  power— 

is  taken  from  nature,  though  it  occurred  on  a 
different  occasion.* 

Lastly,  the  circumstance  of  her  being  called 
back  after  she  had  appealed  from  the  court,  and 
angrily  refusing  to  return  is  from  the  life.  Master 
Griffith,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  observed  that 
she  was  called:  “On,  on,”  quoth  she;  “it  maketh 
no  matter,  for  it  is  no  indifferent  court  for  me, 
therefore  I will  not  tarry.  Go  on  your  w~ays.”  f 
King  Henry’s  own  assertion,  “I  dare  to  say,  my 
lords,  that  for  her  womanhood,  wisdom,  nobility, 
and  gentleness,  never  prince  had  such  another 

♦ “The  queen  answered  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  very  highly 
and  obstinately,  with  many  high  words;  and  suddenly,  in  a 
fury,  she  departed  from  him  into  her  private  chamber.”— 
Hall’s  “Chronicle.” 

t Cavendish’s  “Life  of  Wolsey.” 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  345 

wife,  and  therefore  if  I would  willingly  change  her 
I were  not  wise,”  is  thus  beautifully  paraphrased 
by  Shakspeare — 

That  man  i’  the  world  who  shall  report  he  has 
A better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted, 

For  speaking  false  in  that!  Thou  art,  alone, 

(If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 

Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government, 

Obeying  in  commanding,  and  thy  parts, 

Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out) 

The  queen  of  earthly  queens.  She’s  nobly  born; 

And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

The  annotators  on  Shakspeare  have  all  observed 
the  close  resemblance  between  this  fine  passage — 

Sir, 

I am  about  to  weep;  but  thinking  that 
We  are  a queen  (or  long  have  dreamed  so),  certain 
The  daughter  of  a king— my  drops  of  tears 
I’ll  turn  to  sparks  of  fire — 

and  the  speech  of  Hermione — 

I am  not  prone  to  weeping  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are,  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities;  but  I have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown. 

But  these  verbal  gentlemen  do  not  seem  to  have 
felt  that  the  resemblance  is  merely  on  the  surface, 
and  that  the  two  passages  could  not  possibly 
change  places  without  a manifest  violation  of  the 
truth  of  character.  In  Hermione  it  is  pride  of  sex 
merely;  in  Katherine  it  is  pride  of  place  and  pride 
of  birth.  Hermione,  though  so  superbly  majes- 
tic, is  perfectly  independent  of  her  regal  state; 
Katherine,  though  so  meekly  pious,  will  neither 


346  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

forget  hers  nor  allow  it  to  be  forgotten  by  others 
for  a moment.  Hermione,  when  deprived  of  that 
“crown  and  comfort  of  her  life,”  her  husband’s 
love,  regards  all  things  else  with  despair  and  in- 
difference except  her  feminine  honor;  Katherine, 
divorced  and  abandoned,  still  with  true  Spanish 
pride  stands  upon  respect,  and  will  not  bate  one 
atom  of  her  accustomed  state — 

....  Though  unqueen’d,  yet  like 
A queen,  and  daughter  to  a king,  inter  me! 

The  passage 

A fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A moiety  of  the  throne— a great  king’s  daughter, 
....  here  standing 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life,  and  honor,  ’fore 
Who  please  to  come  to  hear—* 

would  apply  nearly  to  both  queens,  yet  a single 
sentiment — nay,  a single  sentence — could  not  pos- 
sibly be  transferred  from  one  character  to  the 
other.  The  magnanimity,  the  noble  simplicity, 
the  purity  of  heart,  the  resignation  in  each — how 
perfectly  equal  in  degree!  how  diametrically  op- 
posite in  kind!  f 

Once  more  to  return  to  Katherine. 

We  are  told  by  Cavendish,  that  when  Wolsey 
and  Campeggio  visited  the  queen  by  the  king’s 

* “Winter’s  Tale,’’  Act  III,  scene  2. 

f I have  constantly  abstained  from  considering  any  of 
these  characters  with  a reference  to  the  theatre;  yet  I can- 
not help  remarking  that  if  Mrs.  Siddons,  who  excelled 
equally  in  Hermione  and  Katherine,  and  threw  such  majesty 
of  demeanor,  such  power,  such  picturesque  effect,  into  both, 
could  likewise  feel  and  convey  the  infinite  contrast  between 
the  ideal  e*race,  the  classical  repose,  and  imaginative  charm 
thrown  around  Hermione,  and  the  matter-of-fact,  artless, 
prosaic  nature  of  Katherine:  between  the  poetical  grandeur 
of  the  former,  and  the  moral  dignity  of  the  latter— then  she 
certainly  exceeded  all  that  I could  have  imagined  possible, 
even  to  her  wonderful  powers. 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  347 

order,  she  was  found  at  work  among  her  women, 
and  came  forth  to  meet  the  cardinals  with  a skein 
of  white  thread  hanging  about  her  neck;  that 
when  Wolsey  addressed  her  in  Latin,  she  inter- 
rupted him,  saying,  “Nay,  good  my  lord,  speak  to 
me  in  English,  I beseech  you;  although  I under- 
stand Latin.”  “Forsooth  then,”  quoth  my  lord, 
“madam,  if  it  please  your  Grace,  we  come  both  to 
know  your  mind,  how  ye  be  disposed  to  do  in  this 
matter  between  the  king  and  you,  and  also  to  de- 
clare secretly  our  opinions  and  our  counsel  unio 
you,  which  we  have  intended  of  very  zeal  and 
obedience  that  we  bear  to  your  Grace.”  “My 
lords,  I thank  you  then,”  quoth  she,  “of  your  good 
wills;  but  to  make  answer  to  your  request  I can- 
not so  suddenly,  for  I was  set  among  my  maidens 
at  work,  thinking  full  little  of  any  such  matter; 
wherein  there  needeth  a longer  deliberation,  and 
a better  head  than  mine  to  make  answer  to  so 
noble  wise  men  as  ye  be.  I had  need  of  good 
counsel  in  this  case,  which  toucheth  me  so  near; 
and  for  my  counsel  or  friendship  that  I can  find 
in  England,  they  are  nothing  to  my  purpose  or 
profit.  Think  you,  I pray  you,  my  lords,  will  any 
Englishman  counsel,  or  be  friendly  unto  me, 
against  the  king’s  pleasure,  they  being  his  sub- 
jects? Nay,  forsooth,  my  lords!  and  for  my  coun- 
sel, in  whom  I do  intend  to  put  my  trust,  they  be 
not  here;  they  be  in  Spain,  in  my  native  country.* 

* This  affecting  passage  is  thus  rendered  by  Shakspeare: 

Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 

They  that  must  weigh  out  my  afflictions; 

They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here; 

They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 

In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

“Henry  VIII.,"  Act  III,  scene  1. 


348  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Alas!  my  lords,  I am  a poor  woman  lacking  both 
wit  and  understanding  sufficiently  to  answer  such 
approved  wise  men  as  ye  be  both,  in  so  weighty  a 
matter.  I pray  you  to  extend  your  good  and  in- 
different minds  in  your  authority  unto  me,  for  I 
am  a simple  woman,  destitute  and  barren  of 
friendship  and  counsel,  here  in  a foreign  region; 
and  as  for  your  counsel,  I will  not  refuse,  but  be 
glad  to  hear.” 

It  appears  also,  that  when  the  Archbishop  of 
York  and  Bishop  Tunstall  waited  on  her  at  her 
house  near  Huntingdon,  with  the  sentence  of  the 
divorce',  signed  by  Henry  and  confirmed  by  Act  of 
Parliament,  she  refused  to  admit  its  validity,  she 
being  Henry’s  wife,  and  not  his  subject.  The 
bishop  describes  her  conduct  in  his  letter:  “She 
being  therewith  in  great  choler  and  agony,  and 
always  interrupting  our  words,  declared  that  she 
would  never  leave  the  name  of  queen,  but  would 
persist  in  accounting  herself  the  king’s  wife  till 
death.”  When  the  official  letter  containing  min- 
utes of  their  conference  was  shown  to  her,  she 
seized  a pen  and  dashed  it  angrily  across  every  sen- 
tence in  which  she  was  styled  Princess-Dowager. 

If  now  we  turn  to  that  inimitable  scene  between 
Katherine  and  the  two  cardinals  (act  iii.  scene  1), 
we  shall  observe  how  finely  Shakspeare  has  con- 
densed these  incidents,  and  unfolded  to  us  all  the 
workings  of  Katherine’s  proud  yet  feminine  na- 
ture. She  is  discovered  at  work  with  some  of  her 
women — she  calls  for  music  “to  soothe  her  soul, 
grown  sad  with  troubles;”  then  follows  the  little 
song,  of  which  the  sentiment  is  so  well  adapted 
to  the  occasion,  while  its  quaint  yet  classic  ele- 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  349 

gance  breathes  the  very  spirit  of  those  times  wheD 
Surrey  loved  and  sung 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees 
And  the  mountain  tops  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves  when  he  did  sing; 

To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung;  as  sun  and  showers 
There  had  made  a lasting  spring. 

Everything  that  heard  him  play, 

Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 

In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 

Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart; 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

They  are  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  two 
cardinals.  Katherine’s  perceptioon  of  their  sub- 
tlety, her  suspicion  of  their  purpose,  her  sense  of 
her  own  weakness  and  inability  to  contend  with 
them,  and  her  mild  subdued  dignity,  are  beauti- 
fully represented;  as  also  the  guarded  self-com- 
mand with  which  she  eludes  giving  a definite 
answer;  but  when  they  counsel  her  to  that  which 
she,  who  knows  Henry,  feels  must  end  in  her  ruin, 
then  the  native  temper  is  roused  at  once,  or,  to 
use  Tunstall’s  expression,  “the  choler  and  the 
agony”  burst  forth  in  words — 

Is  this  your  Christian  counsel?  Out  upon  ye! 

Heaven  is  above  all  yet;  there  sits  a Judge, 

That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

WoJsey.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Queen  Katherine . The  more  shame  for  ye!  Holy  men 
I thought  ye, 

Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues; 

But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I fear  ye! 

Mend  them,  for  shame,  my  lords:  is  this  your  comfort? 

The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a wretched  lady? 


350 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

With  the  same  force  of  language,  and  impetuous 
yet  dignified  feeling,  she  asserts  her  own  conjugal 
truth  and  merit,  and  insists  upon  her  rights — 

Have  I liv’d  thus  long  (let  me  speak  myself, 

Since  virtue  finds  no  friends)?  a wife,  a true  one, 

A woman  (I  dare  say,  without  vain  glory), 

Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion? 

Have  I with  all  my  full  affections 
Still  met  the  king?— lov’d  him  next  Heaven?  obey’d 
him? 

Been  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  him? 

Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him? 

And  am  I thus  rewarded?  ’tis  not  well,  lords,  etc. 

My  lord,  I dare  not  make  myself  so  guilty, 

To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
Your  master  wed  me  to:  nothing  but  death 
Shall  e’er  divorce  my  dignities. 


And  this  burst  of  unwonted  passion  is  immediately 
followed  by  the  natural  reaction.  It  subsides  into 
tears,  dejection,  and  a mournful  self -compassion — 


’Would  I had  never  trod  this  English  earth, 

Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it! 

What  will  become  of  me  now,  -wretched  lady? 

I am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. 

Alas!  poor  wenches!  where  are  now  your  fortunes? 

f To  her  women. 

Shipwreck’d  upon  a kingdom,  where  no  pity, 

No  friends,  no  hope;  no  kindred  weep  for  me, 

Almost,  no  grave  allow’d  me!  Like  the  lily, 

That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish’d, 

I’ll  hai^  my  head,  and  perish. 


Dr.  Johnson  observes  on  this  scene  that  all 
Katherine’s  distresses  could  not  save  her  from  a 
ouibble  on  the  word  cardinal — 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  851 

Holy  men  I thought  ye, 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues, 

But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I fear  ye! 

When  we  read  this  passage  in  connection  with  the 
situation  and  sentiment,  the  scornful  play  upon 
the  word  is  not  only  appropriate  and  natural,  it 
seems  inevitable.  Katherine,  assuredly,  is  neither 
an  imaginative  nor  a witty  personage,  but  we  all 
acknowledge  the  truism  that  anger  inspires  wit, 
and  whenever  there  is  passion  there  is  poetry.  In 
the  instance  just  alluded  to,  the  sarcasm  springs 
naturally  out  from  the  bitter  indignation  of  the 
moment.  In  her  grand  rebuke  of  Wolsey,  in  the 
Trial  scene,  how  just  and  beautiful  is  the  gradual 
elevation  of  her  language  till  it  rises  into  that 
magnificent  image — 

You  have,  by  fortune,  and  his  highness’  favors, 

Gone  slightly  o’er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted, 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers,  etc. 


In  the  depth  of  her  affliction  the  pathos  as 
naturally  clothes  itself  in  poetry — 

Like  the  lily, 

That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish’d, 

I’ll  hang  my  head,  and  perish. 


But  these,  I believe,  are  the  only  instances  of  im- 
agery throughout,  for,  in  general,  her  language  is 
plain  and  energetic.  It  has  the  strength  and  sim- 
plicity of  her  character,  with  very  little  metaphor, 
and  less  wit. 

In  approaching  the  last  scene  of  Katherine’s  life 
I feel  as  if  about  to  tread  within  a sanctuary 


352  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

where  nothing  befits  ns  bnt  silence  and  tears;  ven- 
eration so  strives  with  compassion,  tenderness  with 
awe.* 

We  must  suppose  a long  interval  to  have  elapsed 
since  Katherine’s  interview  with  the  two  cardinals. 
Wolsey  was  disgraced  and  poor  Anna  Bullen  at  the 
height  of  her  short-lived  prosperity.  It  was  Wol- 
sey’s  fate  to  be  detested  by  both  queens.  In  the 
pursuance  of  his  own  selfish  and  ambitious  designs 
he  had  treated  both  with  perfidy;  and  one  was  the 
remote,  the  other  the  immediate,  cause  of  his 
ruin.f 

The  ruffian  king,  of  whom  one  hates  to  think, 
was  bent  on  forcing  Katherine  to  concede  her 
rights,  and  illegitimize  her  daughter  in  favor  of 

* Dr.  Johnson  is  of  opinion  that  this  scene  “is  above  any 
other  part  of  Shakspeare’s  tragedies,  and  perhaps  above  any 
scene  of  any  other  poet,  tender  and  pathetic;  without  gods, 
or  furies,  or  poisons,  or  precipices;  without  the  help  of 
romantic  circumstances;  without  improbable  sallies  of  poet- 
ical lamentation,  and  without  any  throes  of  tumultuous 
misery.” 

I have  already  observed  that,  in  judging  of  Shakspeare's 
characters  as  of  persons  we  meet  in  real  life,  we  are  swayed 
unconsciously  by  our  own  habits  and  feelings,  and  our  pref- 
erence governed  more  or  less  by  our  individual  prejudices 
or  sympathies.  Thus,  Dr.  Johnson,  who  has  not  a word  to 
bestow  on  Imogen,  and  who  has  treated  poor  Juliet  as  if  he 
had  been  in  truth  “the  very  beadle  of  an  amorous  sigh,” 
does  full  justice  to  the  character  of  Katherine,  because  the 
logical  turn  of  his  mind,  his  vigorous  intellect,  and  his 
austere  integrity,  enabled  him  to  appreciate  its  peculiar 
beauties;  and  accordingly,  we  find  that  he  gives  it,  not  only 
unqualified,  but  almost  exclusive  admiration:  he  goes  so  far 
as  to  assert  that  in  this  play  the  genius  of  Shakspeare  comes 
in  and  goes  out  with  Katherine. 

t It  will  be  remembered  that  in  early  youth  Anna  Bullen 
was  betrothed  to  Lord  Henry  Percy,  who  was  passionately 
in  love  with  her.  Wolsey,  to  serve  the  king’s  purposes, 
broke  off  this  match,  and  forced  Percy  into  an  unwilling 
marriage  with  Lady  Mary  Talbot.  “The  stout  Earl  of  North- 
umberland,” who  arrested  Wolsey  at  York,  was  this  verv 
Percy;  he  was  chosen  for  this  mission  by  the  interference 
of  Anna  Bullen — a piece  of  vengeance  truly  feminine  in  its 
mixture  of  sentiment  and  spitefulness,  and  every  way  char- 
acteristic of  the  individual  woman. 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  353 

the  offspring  of  Anna  Bullen.  She  steadily  re- 
fused, was  declared  contumacious,  and  the  sen- 
tence of  divorce  pronounced  in  1533.  Such  of 
her  attendants  as  persisted  in  paying  her  the 
honors  due  to  a queen  were  driven  from  her  house- 
hold. Those  who  consented  to  serve  her  as 
princess-dowager  she  refused  to  admit  into  her 
presence,  so  that  she  remained  unattended,  ex- 
cept by  a few  women  and  her  gentleman-usher, 
Griffith.  During  the  last  eighteen  months  of  her 
life  she  resided  at  Kimbolton.  Her  nephew, 
Charle  V.,  had  offered  her  an  asylum  and  princely 
treatment,  but  Katherine,  broken  in  heart  and  de- 
clining in  health,  was  unwilling  to  drag  the  spec- 
tacle of  her  misery  and  degradation  into  a strange 
country.  She  pined  in  her  loneliness,  deprived  of 
her  daughter,  receiving  no  consolation  from  the 
Pope  and  no  redress  from  the  emperor.  Wounded 
pride,  wronged  affection,  and  a cankering  jealousy 
of  the  woman  preferred  to  her  (which,  though  it 
never  broke  out  into  unseemly  words,  is  enum- 
erated as  one  of  the  causes  of  her  death),  at  length 
wore  out  a feeble  frame.  “Thus,”  says  the  chron- 
icle, “Queen  Katherine  fell  into  her  last  sickness, 
and  though  the  king  sent  to  comfort  her  through 
Chapuys,  the  emperoris  ambassador,  she  grew 
worse  and  worse.  And  finding  death  now  coming, 
she  caused  a maid  attending  on  her  to  write  to  the 
king  to  this  effect: 

“My  most  dear  Lord,  King,  and  Husband: 

“The  hour  of  my  death  now  approaching,  I can- 
not choose,  but,  out  of  the  love  I bear  you,  advise 
you  of  your  souks  health,  which  you  ought  to  pre- 
fer before  all  considerations  of  the  world  or  flesh 


354  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

whatsoever;  for  which  yet  you  have  cast  me  into 
many  calamities  and  yourself  into  many  troubles; 
but  I forgive  you  all,  and  pray  God  to  do  so  like- 
wise. For  the  rest,  I commend  unto  you  Mary, 
our  daughter,  beseeching  you  to  be  a good  father 
to  her,  as  I have  heretofore  desired.  I must  in- 
treat  you  also  to  respect  my  maids  and  give  them 
in  marriage,  which  is  not  much,  they  being  but 
three,  and  all  my  other  servants  a year’s  pay  be- 
sides their  due,  lest  otherwise  they  be  unprovided 
for.  Lastly,  I make  this  vow,  that  mine  eyes  de- 
sire you  above  all  things, — Farewell  !”  * 

She  also  wrote  another  letter  to  the  ambassador, 
desiring  that  he  would  remind  the  king  of  her 
dying  request  and  urge  him  to  do  her  this  last 
right. 

What  the  historian  relates,  Shakspeare  realizes. 
On  the  wonderful  beauty  of  Katherine’s  closing 
scene  we  need  not  dwell,  for  that  requires  no  illus- 
tration. In  transferring  the  sentiments  of  her 
letter  to  her  lips,  Shakspeare  has  given  them  added 
grace  and  pathos  and  tenderness  without  injuring 
their  truth  and  simplicity;  the  feelings,  and  almost 
the  manner  of  expression,  are  Katherine’s  own. 
The  severe  justice  with  which  she  draws  the  char- 
acter of  Wolsey  is  extremely  characteristic.  The 
benign  candor  with  which  she  listens  to  the  praise 
of  him  “whom  living  she  most  hated”  is  not  less 
so.  How  beautiful  her  religious  enthusiasm! — 
the  slumber  which  visits  her  pillow  as  she  listens 

* The  king  is  said  to  have  wept  on  reading  this  letter, 
and  her  body  being  interred  at  Peterboro’,  in  the  monastery, 
for  honor  of  her  memory  it  was  preserved  at  the  Dissolution, 
and  erected  into  a bishop’s  see.— Herber’s  “Life  of  Henry 
VIII.” 


Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon.  355 

to  that  sad  music  she  called  her  knell.  Her  awak- 
ening from  the  vision  of  celestial  joy  to  find  her- 
self still  on  earth — 

Spirits  of  peace!  where  are  ye?  are  ye  all  gone, 

And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye? 

now  unspeakably  beautiful!  And  to  consummate 
all  in  one  final  touch  of  truth  and  nature,  we  see 
that  consciousness  of  her  own  worth  and  integrity 
which  had  sustained  her  through  all  her  trials  of 
heart,  and  that  pride  of  station  for  which  she  had 
contended  through  long  years — which  had  become 
more  dear  by  opposition,  and  by  the  perseverance 
with  which  she  had  asserted  it — remaining  the  last 
strong  feeling  upon  her  mind  to  the  very  last  hour 
of  existence — 

When  I am  dead,  good  wench, 

Let  me  be  us’d  with  honor;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden-flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I was  a chaste  wife  to  my  grave;  embalm  me, 

Then  lay  me  forth:  although  unqueen’d,  yet  like 
A queen,  and  daughter  to  a king,  inter  me, 

I can  no  more. 

In  the  Epilogue  to  this  play,*  it  is  recom- 
mended— 

To  the  merciful  construction  of  good  women, 

For  such  a one  we  show’d  them: 


alluding  to  the  character  of  Queen  Katherine. 
Shakspeare  has,  in  fact,  placed  before  us  a queen 
and  a heroine,  who  in  the  first  place,  and  above 


* Written  (as  the  commenters  suppose)  not  by  Shakspeare, 
but  by  Ben  Jonson. 


M 


356  Skakspeare’s  Heroines. 

all,  is  a good  woman;  and  I repeat  that  in  doing 
so,  and  in  trusting  for  all  his  effect  to  truth  and 
Yirtue,  he  has  given  a sublime  proof  of  his  genius 
and  his  wisdom — for  which,  among  many  other 
obligations,  we  women  remain  his  debtors. 


LADY  MACBETH. 


I DOUBT  whether  the  epithet  historical  can 
properly  apply  to  the  character  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth, for  though  the  subject  of  the  play  be 
taken  from  history  we  never  think  of  her 
with  any  reference  to  historical  associations  as  we 
do  with  regard  to  Constance,  Volumnia,  Katherine 
of  Arragon,  and  others.  I remember  reading 
some  critique  in  which  Lady  Macbeth  was  styled 
the  u Scottish  Queen  ” and  methought  the  title,  as 
applied  to  her , sounded  like  a vulgarism.  It  ap- 
pears that  the  real  wife  of  Macbeth — she  who  lives 
only  in  the  obscure  record  of  an  obscure  age— bore 
the  very  unmusical  appellation  of  Groach,  and 
was  instigated  to  the  murder  of  Duncan  not  only 
by  ambition,  but  by  motives  of  vengeance.  She 
was  the  granddaughter  of  Kenneth  IV.  killed  in 
1003,  fighting  against  Malcolm  II.,  the  father 
of  Duncan.  Macbeth  reigned  over  Scotland 
from  the  year  1039  to  1056.  But  what  is  all 
this  to  the  purpose?  The  sternly  magnificent  cre- 
ation of  the  poet  stands  before  us  independent 
of  all  these  aids  of  fancy.  She  is  Lady  Macbeth; 
as  such  she  lives,  she  reigns,  and  is  immortal  in  the 
world  of  imagination.  What  earthly  title  could 
add  to  her  grandeur,  what  human  record  or  attest- 
ation strengthen  our  impression  of  her  reality? 

Characters  in  history  move  before  us  like  a pro- 
cession of  figures  in  basso  relievo.  We  see  one  side 

357 


358  Shakspeare’ s Heroines. 

only,  that  which  the  artist  chose  to  exhibit  to  ns; 
the  rest  is  sunk  in  the  block.  The  same  charac- 
ters in  Shakspeare  are  like  the  statues  cut  out  of 
the  block,  fashioned,  finished,  tangible  in  every 
part.  We  may  consider  them  under  every  aspect, 
we  may  examine  them  on  every  side.  As  the 
classical  times,  when  the  garb  did  not  make  the 
man,  were  peculiarly  favorable  to  the  development 
and  delineation  of  the  human  form,  and  have 
handed  down  to  us  the  purest  models  of  strength 
and  grace,  so  the  times  in  which  Shakspeare  lived 
were  favorable  to  the  vigorous  delineation  of  nat- 
ural character.  Society  was  not  then  one  vast 
conventional  masquerade  of  manners.  In  his 
revelations,  the  accidental  circumstances  are  to 
the  individual  character  what  the  drapery  of  the 
antique  statue  is  to  the  statue  itself.  It  is  evident 
that,  though  adapted  to*  each  other  and  studied 
relatively,  they  were  also  studied  separately.  We 
trace  through  the  folds  the  fine  and  true  propor- 
tions of  the  figure  beneath.  They  seem  and  are 
independent  of  each  other  to  the  practiced  eye, 
though  carved  together  from  the  same  enduring 
substance;  at  once  perfectly  distinct  and  eternally 
inseparable.  In  history  we  can  but  study  charac- 
ter in  relation  to  events,  to  situation,  and  circum- 
stances, which  disguise  and  encumber  it.  We  are 
left  to  imagine,  to  infer,  what  certain  people  must 
have  been  from  the  manner  in  which  they  have 
acted  or  suffered.  Shakspeare  and  nature  bring 
us  back  to  the  true  order  of  things,  and,  showing 
us  what  the  human  being  is,  enable  us  to  judge 
of  the  possible  as  well  as  the  positive  result  in  act- 
ing and  suffering.  Here,  instead  of  judging  the 


359 


Lady  Macbeth. 

individual  by  his  actions,  we  are  enabled  to  judge 
of  actions  by  a reference  to  the  individual.  When 
we  can  carry  this  power  into  the  experience  of  real 
life  we  shall  perhaps  be  more  just  to  one  another, 
and  not  consider  ourselves  aggrieved  because  we 
cannot  gather  figs  from  thistles  and  grapes  from 
thorns. 

In  the  play,  or  poem,  of  “Macbeth”  the  interest 
of  the  story  is  so  engrossing,  the  events  so  rapid 
and  so  appalling,  the  accessories  so  sublimely  con- 
ceived and  so  skilfully  combined,  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  detach  Lady  Macbeth  from  the  dramatic 
situation,  or  consider  her  apart  from  the  terrible 
associations  of  our  first  and  earliest  impressions. 
As  the  vulgar  idea  of  a Juliet — that  all-beautiful 
and  heaven-gifted  child  of  the  south — is  merely  a 
love-sick  girl  in  white  satin,  so  the  commmonplace 
idea  of  Lady  Macbeth,  though  endowed  with  the 
rarest  powers,  the  loftiest  energies,  and  the  pro- 
foundest  affections,  is  nothing  but  a fierce,  cruel 
woman,  brandishing  a couple  of  daggers,  and  in- 
citing her  husband  to  butcher  a poor  old  king. 

Even  those  who  reflect  more  deeply  are  apt  to 
consider  rather  the  mode  in  which  a certain  char- 
acter is  manifested  than  the  combination  of  ab- 
stract qualities  making  up  that  individual  human 
being.  So  what  should  be  last  is  first.  Effects  are 
mistaken  for  causes,  qualities  are  confounded  with 
their  results,  and  the  perversion  of  what  is  essen- 
tially good  with  the  operation  of  positive  evil. 
Hence  it  is  that  those  who  can  feel  and  estimate 
the  magnificent  conception  and  poetical  develop- 
ment of  the  character  have  overlooked  the  grand 
moral  lesson  it  conveys;  they  forget  that  the  crime 


360  ' Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

of  Lady  Macbeth  terrifies,  ns  in  proportion  as  we 
sympathize  with  her;  and  that  this  sympathy  is 
in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  pride,  passion,  and 
intellect  we  may  ourselves  possess.  It  is  good  to 
behold  and  to  tremble  at  the  possible  result  of  the 
noblest  faculties  uncontrolled  or  perverted.  True 
it  is  that  the  ambitious  women  of  these  civilized 
times  do  not  murder  sleeping  kings,  but  are  there, 
therefore,  no  Lady  Macbeths  in  the  world,  no 
women  who,  under  the  influence  of  a diseased  or 
excited  appetite  for  power  or  distinction,  would 
sacrifice  the  happiness  of  a daughter,  the  fortunes 
of  a husband,  the  principles  of  a son,  and  peril 
their  own  souls? 

The  character  of  Macbeth  is  considered  as  one 
of  the  most  complex  in  the  whole  range  of  Shak- 
speare’s  dramatic  creations.  He  is  represented  in 
the  course  of  the  action  under  such  a variety  of 
aspects,  the  good  and  evil  qualities  of  his  mind 
are  so>  poised  and  blended,  and  instead  of  being 
gradually  and  successively  developed,  evolve  them- 
selves so  like  shifting  lights  and  shadows  playing 
over  the  “unstable  waters,”  that  his  character  has 
afforded  a continual  and  interesting  subject  of 
analysis  and  contemplation.  None  of  Shak- 
speare’s  personages  have  been  treated  of  more  at 
large,  none  have  been  more  minutely  criticized 
and  profoundly  examined.  A single  feature  in 
his  character — the  question,  for  instance,  as  to 
whether  his  courage  be  personal  or  constitutional, 
or  excited  by  mere  desperation — -has  been  can- 
vassed, asserted,  and  refuted  in  two  masterly 
essays. 


361 


Lady  Macbeth. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  character  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth resolves  itself  into  few  and  simple  elements. 
The  grand  features  of  her  character  are  so  dis- 
tinctly and  prominently  marked  that  though  ac- 
knowledged to  be  one  of  the  poet’s  most  sublime 
creations  she  has  been  passed  over  with  compara- 
tively few  words.  Generally  speaking,  the  com- 
mentators seemed  to  have  considered  Lady  Mac- 
beth rather  with  reference  to  her  husband,  and  as 
influencing  the  action  of  the  drama,  than  as  an 
individual  conception  of  amazing  power,  poetry, 
and  beauty;  or,  if  they  do  individualize  her,  it  is 
ever  with  those  associations  of  scenic  representa- 
tion which  Mrs.  Siddons  has  identified  with  the 
character.  Those  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
see  it  arrayed  in  the  form  and  lineaments  of  that 
magnificent  woman,  and  developed  with  her 
wonder-working  powers,  seem  satisfied  to  leave  it 
there  as  if  nothing  more  could  be  said  or  added.* 

But  the  generation  which  beheld  Mrs.  Siddons 
in  her  glory  is  passing  away,  and  we  are  again  left 
to  our  own  unassisted  feelings,  or  to  all  the  satis- 
faction to  be  derived  from  the  sagacity  of  critics 
and  the  reflections  of  commentators.  Let  us  turn 
to  them  for  a moment. 

Dr.  Johnson,  who  seems  to  have  regarded  her 
as  nothing  better  than  a kind  of  ogress,  tells  us  in 
so  many  words  that  "Lady  Macbeth  is  merely  de- 

* Mrs.  Siddons  left  among  her  papers  an  analysis  of  the 
character  of  Lady  Macbeth,  which  I have  never  seen;  but  I 
have  heard  her  say,  that  after  playing  the  part  for  thirty 
years,  she  never  read  it  over  without  discovering  in  it  some- 
thing new.  She  had  an  idea  that  Lady  Macbeth  must,  from 
her  Celtic  origin,  have  been  a sma4J,  fair,  blue-eyed  woman. 
Bondiica,  Fredegonde.  Brunehault.  and  other  amazons  of  the 
Gothic  ages,  were  of  this  complexion;  yet  I cannot  help 
fancying  Lady  Macbeth  dark,  like  Black  Agnes  of  Douglas— 
a sort  of  Lady  Macbeth  in  her  way. 


362  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

tested.”  Schlegel  dismisses  her  in  haste,  as  a 
species  of  female  fury.  In  the  two  essays  on  Mac- 
beth already  mentioned,  she  is  passed  over  with 
one  or  two  slight  allusions.  The  only  justice  that 
has  yet  been  done  to  her  is  by  Hazlitt,  in  “The 
Characters  of  Shakspeare’s  Plays.”  Nothing  can 
be  finer  than  his  remarks  as  far  as  they  go,  bur  his 
plan  did  not  allow  him  sufficient  space  to  work 
out  his  own  conception  of  the  character  with  the 
minuteness  it  requires.  All  that  he  says  is  just  in 
sentiment,  and  most  eloquent  in  the  expression; 
but  in  leaving  some  of  the  finest  points  altogether 
untouched,  he  has  also  left  us  in  doubt  whether  he 
even  felt  or  perceived  them:  and  his  masterly  crit- 
icism stops  short  of  the  whole  truth — it  is  a little 
superficial  and  a little  too  harsh.* 

In  the  mind  of  Lady  Macbeth  ambition  is  repre- 
sented as  the  ruling  motive,  an  intense  overmaster- 
ing passion  which  is  gratified  at  the  expense  of 
every  just  and  generous  principle  and  every  fem- 
inine feeling.  In  the  pursuit  of  her  object  she  is 
cruel,  treacherous,  and  daring.  She  is  doubly, 
trebly,  dyed  in  guilt  and  blood;  for  the  murder 
she  instigates  is  rendered  more  frightful  by  dis- 
loyalty and  ingratitude,  and  by  the  violation  of  all 
the  most  sacred  claims  of  kindred  and  hospitality. 
When  her  husband’s  more  kindly  nature  shrinks 
from  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  horror,  she, 
like  an  evil  genius,  whispers  him  on  to  his  damna- 
tion. The  full  measure  of  her  wickedness  is  never 
disguised,  the  magnitude  and  atrocity  of  her  crime 

* The  German  critic,  Tieck.  also  leans  to  this  harsher 
opinion,  judging  rather  from  the  manner  in  which  the  char- 
acter is  usually  plaved  in  Germany,  than  from  its  intrinsic 
and  poetical  construction. 


363 


Lady  Macbeth. 

is  never  extenuated,  forgotten,  or  forgiven,  in  the 
whole  course  of  the  play.  Our  judgment  is  not 
bewildered,  nor  our  moral  feeling  insulted,  by  the 
sentimental  jumble  of  great  crimes  and  dazzling 
virtues,  after  the  fashion  of  the  German  school, 
and  of  some  admirable  writers  of  our  own  time. 
Lady  Macbeth’s  amazing  power  of  intellect,  her 
inexorable  determination  of  purpose,  her  super- 
human strength  of  nerve,  render  her  as  fearful  in 
herself  as  her  deeds  are  hateful;  yet  she  is  not  a 
mere  monster  of  depravity,  with  whom  we  have 
nothing  in  common,  nor  a meteor  whose  destroy- 
ing path  we  watch  in  ignorant  affright  and  amaze. 
She  is  a terrible  impersonation  of  evil  passions 
and  mighty  powers,  never  so  far  removed  from  our 
own  nature  as  to  be  cast  beyond  the  pale  of  our 
sympathies;  for  the  woman  herself  remains  a 
woman  to  the  last — still  linked  with  her  sex  and 
with  humanity. 

This  impression  is  produced  partly  by  the  essen- 
tial truth  in  the  conception  of  the  character  and 
partly  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  evolved;  by  a 
combination  of  minute  and  delicate  touches,  in 
some  instances  by  speech,  in  others  by  silence:  at 
one  time  by  what  is  revealed,  at  another  by  what 
we  are  left  to  infer.  As  in  real  life,  we  perceive 
distinctions  in  character  we  cannot  always  explain, 
and  receive  impressions  for  which  we  cannot  al- 
ways account,  without  going  back  to  the  begin- 
ning of  an  acquaintance  and  recalling  many  and 
trifling  circumstances' — looks,  and  tones,*  and 
words:  thus,  to  explain  that  hold  which  Lady  Mac- 
beth, in  the  midst  of  all  her  atrocities,  still  keeps 
upon  our  feelings,  it  is  necessary  to  trace  minutely 


864 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

the  action  of  the  play,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned 
in  it,  from  its  very  commencement  to  its  close. 

^We  must  then  bear  in  mind,  that  the  first  idea 
of  murdering  Duncan  is  not  suggested  by  Lady 
Macbeth  to  her  husband:  it  springs  within  his 
mind,  and  is  revealed  to  us  before  his  first  inter- 
view with  his  wife — before  she  is  introduced,  or 
even  alluded  to — 

Macbeth.  This  supernatural  soliciting 

Cannot  be  ill*  cannot  be  good.  If  ill, 

Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 

Commencing  in  a truth?  I am  thane  of  Cawdor— 

If  good,  why  do  I yield  to  that  suggestion, 

Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair, 

And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 

Against  the  use  of  nature? 

It  will  be  said,  that  the  same  “horrid  sugges- 
tion” presents  itself  spontaneously  to  her  on  the 
reception  of  his  letter;  or  rather  that  the  letter 
itself  acts  upon  her  mind  as  the  prophecy  of  the 
Weird  Sisters  on  the  mind  of  her  husband,  kin- 
dling the  latent  passion  for  empire  into  a quench- 
less flame.  We  are  prepared  to  see  the  train  of 
evil,  first  lighted  by  hellish  agency,  extend  itself 
to  her  through  the  medium  of  her  husband:  but 
we  are  spared  the  more  revolting  idea  that  it 
originated  with  her.  The  guilt  is  thus  more 
equally  divided  than  we  should  suppose  when  we 
hear  people  pitying  “the  noble  nature  of  Mac- 
beth,” bewildered  and  goaded  on  to  crime,  solely 
or  chiefly  by  the  instigation  of  his  wife. 

It  is  true  that  she  afterwards  appears  the  more 
active  agent  of  the  two;  but  it  is  less  through  her 
preeminence  in  wickedness  than  through  her  su- 


365 


Lady  Macbeth. 

periority  of  intellect.  The  eloquence — the  fierce, 
fervid  eloquence,  with  which  she  bears  down  the 
relenting  and  reluctant  spirit  of  her  husband,  the 
dexterous  sophistry  with  which  she  wards  off  his 
objections,  her  artful  and  affected  doubts  of.  his 
courage,  the  sarcastic  manner  in  which  she  lets  fail 
the  word  coward — a word  which  no  man  can  en- 
due from  another,  still  less  from  a woman,  and 
least  of  all  from  the  woman  he  loves — and  the  bold 
address  with  which  she  removes  all  obstacles, 
silences  all  arguments,  overpowers  all  scruples, 
and  marshals  the  way  before  him,  absolutely  make 
us  shrink  before  the  commanding  intellect  of  the 
woman  with  a terror  in  which  interest  and  admira- 
tion are  strangely  mingled. 

Lady  Macbeth . He  has  almost  supp’d:  why  have  you 
left  the  chamber? 

Macbeth.  Hath  he  asked  for  me? 

Lady  Macbeth.  Know  you  not  he  has? 

Macbeth.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business; 
He  hath  honor’d  me  of  late;  and  I have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 

Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 

Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Was  the  hope  drunk, 

Wherein  you  dress’d  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 

And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely?  From  this  time, 

Such  I account  thy  love.  Art  thou  afear’d 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor, 

As  thou  art  in  desire?  Would’st  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem’st  the  ornament  of  life, 

And  live  a coward  in  thine  own  esteem; 

Letting  I dare  not  wait  upon  I would, 

Like  the  poor  cat  i’  the  adage? 

Macbeth.  Pr’ythee,  peace. 

I dare  not  do  all  that  may  become  a man; 

Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 


366 


Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

Lady  Macbeth . What  beast  was’t  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me? 

When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a man; 

And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.  Nor  time,  nor  place, 

Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  wouid  make  both; 

They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.  I have  given  suck;  and  know 
How  tender  ’tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me: 

I would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 

Have  pluck’d  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 

And  dashed  the  brains  out,  had  I so  sworn,  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Macbeth.  If  we  should  fail,— 

Lady  Macbeth.  We  fail.* 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 

And  we’ll  not  fail. 

Again,  in  the  murdering  scene,  the  obdurate  in- 
flexibility of  purpose  with  which  she  drives  on 
Macbeth  to  the  execution  of  their  project,  and  her 
masculine  indifference  to  blood  and  death,  would 
inspire  unmitigated  disgust  and  horror,  but  for 
the  involuntary  consciousness  that  it  is  produced 
rather  by  the  exertion  of  a strong  power  over  her- 
self than  by  absolute  depravity  of  disposition  and 
ferocity  of  temper.  This  impression  of  her  char- 
acter is  brought  home  at  once  to  our  very  hearts 
with  the  most  profound  know  edge  of  the  springs 

* In  her  impersonation  of  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  Mrs. 
Siddons  adopted  successively  three  different  intonations  in 
giving  the  words  we  fail.  At  first,  as  a quick,  contemptuous 
interrogation — we  fail?  Afterwards,  with  the  note  of  ad- 
miration—we  fail!  and  an  accent  of  indignant  astonishment, 
laying  the  principal  emphasis  on  the  word  we — we  fail! 
Lastly,  she  fixed  on  what  I am  convinced  is  the  true  reading 
—we  fail.  With  the  simple  period,  modulating  her  voice  to 
a deep,  low,  resolute  tone,  which  settled  the  issue  at  once — 
as  though  she  had  said,  “If  we  fail,  why,  then  we  fail,  and 
all  is  over.”  This  is  consistent  with  the  dark  fatalism  of 
the  character  and  the  sense  of  the  line  following,  and  the 
effect  was  sublime— almost  awful. 


367 


Lady  Macbeth. 

of  nature  within  us,  the  most  subtle  mastery  over 
their  various  operations,  and  a feeling  of  dramatic 
effect  not  less  wonderful.  The  very  passages  in 
which  Lady  Macbeth  displays  the  most  savage  and 
relentless  determination  are  so*  worded  as.  to  fill 
the  mind  with  the  idea  of  sex,  and  place  the 
woman  before  us  in  all  her  dearest  attributes,  at 
once  softening  and  refining  the  horror,  and  ren- 
dering it  more  intense.  Thus,  when  she  re- 
proaches her  husband  for  his  weakness — 

Prom  this  time, 

Such  I account  thy  love! 

Again^ — 

Come  to  my  woman’s  breasts, 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  ye  murd’ring  ministers. 

******* 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  etc. 

....  I have  given  such,  and  know 

How  tender  ’tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me,  etc. 


And  lastly,  in  the  moment  of  extremest  horror 
comes  that  unexpected  touch  of  feeling  so  start- 
ling, yet  so  wonderfully  true  to  nature — 


....  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I had  done  it! 

Thus,  in  one  of  Weber’s  or  Beethoven’s  grand 
symphonies,  some  unexpected  soft  minor  chord  or 
passage  will  steal  on  the  ear,  heard  amid  the  mag- 
nificent crash  of  harmony,  making  the  blood 
pause,  and  filling  the  eye  with  unbidden  tears. 

It  is  particularly  observable  that  in  Lady  Mac- 
beth’s concentrated,  strong-nerved  ambition,  the 


/ 


368  Sliakspeare’s  Heroines. 

ruling  passion  of  her  mind,  there  is  yet  a touch  of 
womanhood;  she  is  ambitious  less  for  herself  than 
for  her  husband.  It  is  fair  to  think  this,  because 
we  have  no  reason  to  draw  any  other  inference 
either  from  her  words  or  actions.  In  her  famous 
soliloquy,  after  reading  her  husband's  letter,  she 
does  not  once  refer  to  herself.  It  is  of  him  she 
thinks:  she  wishes  to  see  her  husband  on  the 
throne,  and  to  place  the  sceptre  within  his  grasp. 
The  strength  of  her  affections  adds  strength  to  her 
ambition.  Although  in  the  old  story  of  Boethius 
we  are  told  that  the  wife  of  Macbeth  “burned  with 
unquenchable  desire  to  bear  the  name  of  queen/’ 
yet,  in  the  aspect  under  which  Shakspeare  has 
represented  the  character  to  us,  the  selfish  part  of 
this  ambition  is  kept  out  of  sight.  AVe  must  re- 
mark, also,  that  in  Lady  Macbeth’s  reflections  on 
her  husband’s  character,  and  on  that  milkiness  of 
nature  which  she  fears  “may  impede  him  from  the 
golden  round,”  there  is  no  indication  of  female 
scorn:  there  is  exceeding  pride,  but  no  egotism  in 
the  sentiment  or  the  expression;  no  want  of  wifely 
and  womanly  respect  and  love  for  him,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  a sort  of  unconsciousness  of  her  own 
mental  superiority,  which  she  betrays  rather  than 
asserts,  as  interesting  in  itself  as  it  is  most  ad- 
mirably conceived  and  delineated. 


Glamis  thou  art.  and  Cawdor;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  arf  promis’d:— Yet  do  I fear  thy  nature; 

It  is  too  full  o’  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way:  Thou  would’st  be  great; 

Art  not  without  ambition;  but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it.  What  thou  would’st  highly. 

That  would’st  thou  holily;  would’st  not  play  false. 


Lady  Macbeth.  369 

And  yet  would’st  wrongly  win:  thou’dst  have,  great 
Glamis, 

That  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it; 

And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 

Than  wishest  should  he  undone . Hie  thee  hither, 

That  I may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear; 

And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical*  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown’d  withal. 

'Nov  is  there  anything  vulgar  in  her  ambition: 
as  the  strength  of  her  affections  lends  to  it  some- 
thing profound  and  concentrated,  so  her  splendid 
imagination  invests  the  object  of  her  desire  with 
its  own  radiance.  We  cannot  trace  in  her  grand 
and  capacious  mind  that  it  is  the  mere  baubles  and 
trappings  of  royalty  which  dazzle  and  allure  her: 
hers  is  the  sin  of  the  “star-bright  apostate,”  and 
she  plunges  with  her  husband  into  the  abyss  of 
guilt,  to  procure  for  “'all  their  days  and  nights  sole 
sovereign  sway  and  masterdom.”  She  revels,  she 
luxuriates  in  her  dream  of  power.  She  reaches  at 
the  golden  diadem  which  is  to  sear  her  brain;  she 
perils  life  and  soul  for  its  attainment,  with  an  en- 
thusiasm as  perfect,  a faith  as  settled,  as  that  of 
the  martyr,  who  sees  at  the  stake  heaven  and  its 
crowns  of  glory  opening  upon  him — 

Great  Glamis!  worthy  Cawdor! 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter t 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant! 

This  is  surely  the  very  rapture  of  ambition!  and 

* Methaphysical'is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  spiritual  or 
preternatural. 


370  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

those  who  have  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  pronounce  the 
word  hereafter , cannot  forget  the  look,  the  tone, 
which  seemed  to  give  her  auditors  a glimpse  of 
that  awful  future , which  she,  in  her  prophetic 
fury,  beholds  upon  the  instant. 

But  to  return  to  the  text  before  us:  Lady  Mac- 
beth having  proposed  the  object  to  herself,  and 
arrayed  it  with  an  ideal  glory,  fixes  her  eye  steadily 
upon  it,  soars  far  above  all  womanish  feelings 
and  scruples  to  attain  it,  and  stoops  upon  her  vic- 
tim with  the  strength  and  velocity  of  a vulture; 
but  having  committed  unflinchingly  the  crime 
necessary  for  the  attainment  of  her  purpose,  she 
stops  there.  After  the  murder  of  Duncan,  we  see 
Lady  Macbeth,  during  the  rest  of  the  play,  occu- 
pied in  supporting  the  nervous  weakness  and  sus- 
taining the  fortitude  of  her  husband;  for  instance, 
Macbeth  is  at  one  time  on  the  verge  of  frenzy,  be- 
tween fear  and  horror,  and  it  is  clear  that  if  she 
loses  her  self-command,  both  must  perish — 

Macbeth.  One  cried,  God  bless  us!  and  Amen!  the  other; 

As  they  had  seen  me,  with  these  hangman’s  hands. 

Listening  their  fear;  I could  not  say  Amen! 

When  they  cried  God  bless  us! 

Lady  Macbeth . Consider  it  not  so  deeply! 

Macbeth.  But  wherefore  could  not  I pronounce  Amen? 

I had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  Amen 

Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  Macbeth.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways:  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macbeth.  Methought  I heard  a voice  cry,  “Sleep  no 
more!”  etc. 

Lady  Macbeth.  What  do  you  mean? 

Who  was  it  that  thus  cried?  Why,  worthy  Thane, 

You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 

So  brainsickly  of  things:— Go,  get  some  water,  etc. 


Lady  Macbeth.  371 

Afterwards  (in  act  iii.)  she  is  represented  as  mut- 
tering to  herself — 

Nought’s  had,  all’s  spent, 

When  our  desire  is  got  without  content: 


yet  immediately  addresses  her  moody  and  con- 
science-stricken husband — 


How  now,  my  lord?  why  do  you  keep  alone. 

Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making? 

Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on?  Things  without  all  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard;  what’s  done,  is  done. 

But  she  is  nowhere  represented  as  urging  him  on 
too  new  crimes;  so  far  from  it,  that  when  Macbeth 
darkly  hints  his  purposed  assassination  of  Banquo, 
and  she  inquires  his  meaning,  he  replies — 

Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 

Till  thou  applaud  the  deed. 


The  same  may  be  said  of  the  destruction  of  Mac- 
duff’s family.  Every  one  must  perceive  how  our 
detestation  of  the  woman  had  been  increased,  if 
she  had  been  placed  before  us  as  suggesting  and 
abetting  those  additional  cruelties  into  which  Mac- 
beth is  hurried  by  his  mental  cowardice. 

If  my  feeling  of  Lady  Macbeth’s  character  be 
just  to  the  conception  of  the  poet,  then  she  is  one 
who  could  steel  herself  to  the  commission  of  a 
crime  from  necessity  and  expediency,  and  be  dar- 
ingly wicked  for  a great  end,  but  not  likely  to  per- 
petrate gratuitous  murders  from  any  vague  or 
selfish  fears.  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  per- 
fect confidence  existing  between  herself  and  Mac- 


372  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

beth  could  possibly  leave  her  in  ignorance  of  his 
actions  or  designs:  that  heart-broken  and  shudder- 
ing allusion  to  the  murder  of  Lady  Macduff  (in  the 
sleeping  scene)  proves  the  contrary — 

The  thane  of  Fife  had  a wife:  where  is  she  now? 

But  she  is  nowhere  brought  before  us  in  imme- 
diate connection  with  these  horrors,  and  we  are 
spared  any  flagrant  proof  of  her  participation  in 
them.  This  may  not  strike  us  at  first,  but  most 
undoubtedly  has  an  effect  on  the  general  bearing 
of  the  character,  considered  as  a whole. 

Another  more  obvious  and  pervading  source  of 
interest  arises  from  that  bond  of  entire  affection 
and  confidence  which,  through  the  whole  of  this 
dreadful  tissue  of  crime  and  its  consequences, 
unites  Macbeth  and  his  wife;  claiming  from  us  an 
involuntary  respect  and  sympathy,  and  shedding  a 
softening  influence  over  the  whole  tragedy.  Mac- 
beth leans  upon  her  strength,  trusts  in  her  fidel- 
ity, and  throws  himself  on  her  tenderness — 

O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife! 


She  sustains  him,  calms  him,  soothes  him-r- 

....  Come  on;  gentle  my  lord, 

Sleek  o’er  your  rugged  looks;  be  bright  and  jovial 
Among  your  guests  to-night. 


The  endearing  epithets,  the  terms  of  fondness 
in  which  he  addresses  her,  and  the  tone  of  respect 
she  invariably  maintains  towards  him,  even  when 
most  exasperated  by  his  vacillation  of  mind  and 


Lady  Macbeth.  373 

his  brainsick  terrors,  have  by  the  very  force  of  con- 
trast a powerful  effect  on  the  fancy. 

By  these  tender  redeeming  touches  we  are  im- 
pressed with  a feeling  that  Lady  Macbeth's  in- 
fluence over  the  affections  of  her  husband,  as  a 
wife  and  a woman,  is  at  least  equal  to  her  power 
over  him  as  a superior  mind.  Another  thing  has 
always  struck  her.  During  the  supper  scene,  in 
which  Macbeth  is  haunted  by  the  spectre  of  the 
murdered  Banquo,  and  his  reason  appears  unset- 
tled by  the  extremity  of  his  horror  and  dismay,  her 
indignant  rebuke,  her  low  whispered  remon- 
strance, the  sarcastic  emphasis  with  which  she 
combats  his  sick  fancies  and  endeavors  to  recall 
him  to  himself,  have  an  intenseness,  a severity,  a 
bitterness,  which  makes  the  blood  creep — 

Lady  Macbeth.  Are  you  a man? 

Macbeth.  Ay,  and  a bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appall  the  devil. 

Lady  Macbeth.  O proper  stuff! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear: 

This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  you  said, 

Led  you  to  Duncan.  O,  these  flaws,  and  starts, 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 
A woman’s  story  at  a winter’s  fire, 

Authoriz’d  by  her  grandam!  Shame  itself! 

Why  do  you  make  such  faces?  When  all’s  done 
You  look  but  on  a stool. 

What!  quite  unmann’d  in  folly? 

Yet  when  the  guests  are  dismissed,  and  they  are 
left  alone,  she  says  no  more,  and  not  a syllable  of 
reproach  or  scorn  escapes  her:  a few  words  in  sub- 
missive reply  to  his  questions,  and  an  entreaty  to 
seek  repose,  are  all  she  permits  herself  to  utter. 
There  is  a touch  of  pathos  and  of  tenderness  in 


374  Shakspeare’s  Heroines, 

this  silence  which  has  always  affected  me  beyond 
expression:  it  is  one  of  the  most  masterly  and  most 
beautiful  traits  of  character  in  the  whole  play. 

Lastly,  it  is  clear  that  in  a mind  constituted  like 
that  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and  not  utterly  depraved 
and  hardened  by  the  habit  of  crime,  conscience 
must  wake  some  time  or  other,  and  bring  with  it 
remorse  closed  by  despair,  and  despair  by  death. 
This  great  moral  retribution  was  to  be  displayed 
to  us — but  how?  Lady  Macbeth  is  not  a woman 
to  start  at  shadows;  she  mocks  at  air-drawn  dag- 
gers: she  sees  no  imagined  spectres  rise  from  the 
tomb  to  appall  or  accuse  her.*  The  towering 
bravery  of  her  mind  disdains  the  visionary  terrors 
which  haunt  her  weaker  husband.  We  know,  or 
rather  we  feel,  that  she  who  could  give  a voice  to 
the  most  direful  intent,  and  call  on  the  spirits  that 
wait  on  mortal  thoughts  to  “unsex  her,”  and  “stop 
up  all  access  and  passage  of  remorse” — to  that  re- 
morse would  have  given  nor  tongue  nor  sound; 
and  that  rather  than  have  uttered  a complaint,  she 
would  have  held  her  breath  and  died.  To  have 
given  her  a confidant,  though  in  the  partner  of  her 
guilt,  would  have  been  a degrading  resource,  and 
have  disappointed  and  enfeebled  all  our  previous 
impressions  of  her  character;  yet  justice  is  to  be 
done,  and  we  are  to  be  made  acquainted  with  that 
which  the  woman  herself  would  have  suffered  a 
thousand  deaths  of  torture  rather  than  have  be- 
trayed. In  the  sleeping  scene  we  have  a glimpse 

* Mrs.  Siddons,  I believe,  had  an  idea  that  Lady  Macbeth 
beheld  the  spectre  of  Banquo  in  the  supper  scene,  and  that 
her  self-control  and  presence  of  mind  enabled  her  to  sur- 
mount her  consciousness  of  the  ghastly  presence.  This 
would  be  superhuman,  and  I do  not  see  that  either  the  char- 
acter or  the  text  bear  out  the  supposition. 


275 


Lady  Macbeth. 

into  the  depths  of  that  inward  hell:  the  seared 
brain  and  broken  heart  are  laid  bare  before  us  in 
the  heplessness  of  slumber.  By  a judgment  the 
most  sublime  ever  imagined,  yet  the  most  un- 
forced, natural,  and  inevitable,  the  sleep  of  her 
who  murdered  sleep  is  no  longer  repose,  but  a 
condensation  of  resistless  horrors  with  the  pros- 
trate intellect  and  the  powerless  will  can  neither 
baffle  nor  repel.  We  shudder  and  are  satisfied; 
yet  our  human  sympathies  are  again  touched:  we 
rather  sigh  over  the  ruin  than  exult  in  it;  and  after 
watching  her  through  this  wonderful  scene  with  a 
sort  of  fascination,  we  dismiss  the  unconscious, 
helpless,  despair-stricken  murderess,  with  a feel- 
ing which  Lady  Macbeth,  in  her  waking  strength, 
with  all  her  awe-commanding  powers  about  her, 
could  never  have  excited. 

It  is  here  especially  we  perceive  that  sweetness 
of  nature  which  in  Shakspeare  went  hand  in  hand 
with  his  astonishing  powers.  He  never  cpnfounds 
that  line  of  demarcation  which  eternally  separates 
good  from  evil,  yet  he  never  places  evil  before  us 
without  exciting  in  some  way  a consciousness  of 
the  opposite  good  which  shall  balance  and  re- 
lieve it. 

I do  deny  he  has  represented  in  Lady  Mac- 
beth a woman  “naturally  cruel”  * “invariably  sav- 
age” f or  endued  with  “pure  demoniac  firmness”  + 
If  ever  there  could  have  existed  a woman  to  whom 
such  phrases  could  apply — a woman  without  touch 
of  modesty,  pity,  or  fear — Shakspeare  knew  that  a 
thing  so  monstrous  was  unfit  for  all  the  purposes 

* Cumberland. 

t Professor  Richardson. 

t Foster’s  “Essays.” 


376  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

of  poetry.  If  Lady  Macbeth  had  been  naturally 
cruel,  she  needed  not  so  solemnly  to  have  abjured 
all  pity,  and  called  on  the  spirits  that  wait  on  mor- 
tal thoughts  to  unsex  her;  nor  would  she  have  been 
loved  to  excess  by  a man  of  Macbeth’s  character; 
for  it  is  the  sense  of  intellectual  energy  and 
strength  of  will  overpowering  her  feminine  nature 
which  draws  from  him  that  burst  of  intense  ad- 
miration— 

Bring  forth  men-children  only! 

For  thy  undaunted  metal  should  compose 

Nothing  but  males. 

If  she  had  been  invariably  savage,  her  love  would 
not  have  comforted  and  sustained  her  husband  in 
his  despair,  nor  would  her  uplifted  dagger  have 
been  arrested  by  a dear  and  venerable  image  rising 
between  her  soul  and  its  fell  purpose.  If  endued 
with  pure  demoniac  firmness , her  woman’s  nature 
would  not,  by  the  reaction,  have  been  so  horribly 
avenged — she  would  not  have  died  of  remorse  and 
despair. 

We  cannot  but  observe,  that  through  the  whole 
of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Lady  Macbeth, 
there  is  something  very  peculiar  and  characteristic 
in  the  turn  of  expression:  her  compliments,  when 
she  is  playing  the  hostess  or  the  queen,  are 
elaborately  elegant  and  verbose:  but,  when  in 
earnest,  she  speaks  in  short  energetic  sentences' — - 
sometimes  abrupt,  but  always  full  of  meaning;  her 
thoughts  are  rapid  and  clear,  her  expressions  for- 
cible, and  the  imagery  like  sudden  flashes  of  light- 
ning: all  the  foregoing  extracts  exhibit  this,  but 


Lady  Macbeth.  377 

I will  venture  one  more,  as  an  immediate  illustra- 
tion— 

Macbeth.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  Macbeth.  And  when  goes  hence? 

Macbeth.  To-morrow,— as  he  purposes. 

Lady  Macbeth.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see! 

Thy  face,  my  Thane,  is  as  a book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters:  To  beguile  the  time,— 

Look  like  the  time;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 

Your  hand,  your  tongue;  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it. 

What  would  not  the  firmness,  the  self-command, 
the  enthusiasm,  the  intellect,  the  ardent  affections 
of  this  woman  have  performed,  if  properly  di- 
rected? but  the  object  unworthy  of  the  effort,  the 
end  is  disappointment,  despair,  and  death. 

The  power  of  religion  could  alone  have  con- 
trolled such  a mind;  but  it  is  the  misery  of  a very 
proud,  strong,  and  gifted  spirit,  without  sense  of 
religion,  that  instead  of  looking  upward  to  find  a 
superior,  it  looks  round  and  sees  all  things  as 
subject  to  itself.  Lady  Macbeth  is  placed  in  a 
dark,  ignorant,  iron  age;  her  powerful  intellect  is 
slightly  tinged  with  its  credulity  and  superstitions, 
but  she  has  no  religious  feeling  to  restrain  the 
force  of  will.  She  is  a stern  fatalist  in  principle 
and  action — “what  is  done,  is  done,”  and  would  be 
done  over  again  under  the  same  circumstances: 
her  remorse  is  without  repentance,  or  any  refer- 
ence to  an  offended  Deity;  it  arises  from  the  pang 
of  a wounded  conscience,  the  recoil  of  the  violated 
feelings  of  nature:  it  is  the  horror  of  the  past,  not 
the  terror  of  the  future;  the  torture  of  self-con- 


378  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

demnation,  not  the  fear  of  judgment;  it  is  strong 
as  her  soul,  deep  as  her  guilt,  fatal  as  her  resolve, 
and  terrible  as  her  crime. 

If  it  should  be  objected  to  this  view  of  Lady 
Macbeth’s  character  that  it  engages  our  sympa- 
thies in  behalf  of  a perverted  being — and  that  to 
leave  her  so  strong  a power  upon  our  feelings  in 
the  midst  of  such  supreme  wickedness  involves  a 
moral  wrong,  I can  only  reply,  in  the  words  of 
I)r.  Channing,  that  “in  this  and  the  like  cases  our 
interest  fastens  on  what  is  not  evil  in  the  character 
— that  there  is  something  kindling  and  ennobling 
in  the  consciousness,  however  awakened,  of  the 
energy  which  resides  in  mind;  and  many  a virtu- 
ous man  has  borrowed  new  strength  from  the 
force,  constancy^  and  dauntless  courage  of  evil 
agents/’  * 

This  is  true;  and  might  he  not  have  added  that 
many  a powerful  and  gifted  spirit  has  learnt  hu- 
mility and  self-government,  from  beholding  how 
far  the  energy  which  resides  in  mind  may  be  de- 
graded and  perverted? 

In  general,  when  a woman  is  introduced  into  a 
tragedy  to  be  the  presiding  genius  of  evil  in  her- 
self, or  the  cause  of  evil  to  others,  she  is  either  too 
feebly  or  too  darkly  portrayed;  either  crime  is 
heaped  on  crime,  and  horror  on  horror,  till  our 
sympathy  is  lost  in  incredulity,  or  the  stimulus  is 
sought  in  unnatural  or  impossible  situations.,  or  in 
situations  that  ought  to  be  impossible  (as  in  the 
Myrrha  or  the  Cenci),  or  the  character  is  enfeebled 

* See  Dr.  Channing’s  remarks  on  Satan,  in  his  essay  “On 
the  Character  and  Writings  of  Milton.”— “Works,”  p.  131. 


379 


Lady  Macbeth. 

by  a mixture  of  degrading  propensities  and  sexual 
weakness,  as  in  Yittoria  Corombona.  But  Lady 
Macbeth,  though  so  supremely  wicked,  and  so 
consistently  feminine,  is  still  kept  aloof  from  all 
base  alloy.  When  Shakspeare  created  a female 
character  purely  detestable,  he  made  her  an  ac- 
cessory, never  a principal.  Thus  Regan  and  Gon- 
eril  are  two  powerful  sketches  of  selfishness, 
cruelty,  and  ingratitude;  we  abhor  them  whenever 
we  see  or  think  of  them,  but  we  think  very  little 
about  them,  except  as  necessary  to  the  action  of 
the  drama.  They  are  to  cause  the  madness  of 
Lear,  and  to  call  forth  the  filial  devotion  of  Cor- 
delia, and  their  depravity  is  forgotten  in  its  effects. 
A comparison  has  been  made  between  Lady  Mac- 
beth and  the  Greek  Clytemnestra  in  the  “Aga- 
memnon” of  iEschylus.  The  Clytemnestra  of 
Sophocles  is  something  more  in  Shakspeare’s 
spirit,  for  she  is  something  less  impudently  atro- 
cious: but,  considered  as  a woman  and  an  indi- 
vidual, would  any  one  compare  this  shameless 
adulteress,  cruel  murderess,  and  unnatural  mother, 
with  Lady  Macbeth?  Lady  Macbeth  herself  would 
certainly  shrink  from  the  approximation.* 

* The  vision  of  Clytemnestra  the  night  before  she  Is 
murdered,  in  which  she  dreams  that  she  has  given  birth  to 
a dragon,  and  that  in  laying  it  to  her  bosom  it  draws  blood 
instead  of  milk,  has  been  greatly  admired,  but  I suppose 
that  those  who  most  admire  it  would  not  place  it  in  com- 
parison with  Lady  Macbeth’s  sleeping  scene.  Lady  Ashton, 
in  “The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,”  is  a domestic  Lady  Mac- 
beth; but  the  development  being  in  the  narrative,  not  the 
dramatic  form,  it  follows  hence  that  we  have  a masterly 
portrait,  not  a complete  individual;  and  the  relief  of  poetry 
and  sympathy  being  wanting,  the  detestation  she  inspires  is 
so  unmixed  as  to  be  almost  intolerable;  consequently  the 
character,  considered  in  relation  to  the  other  personages  of 
the  story,  is  perfect;  but  abstractedly  It  is  imperfect;  a 
basso  relievo— not  a statue. 


380  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

The  Electra  of  Sophocles  comes  nearer  to  Lady 
Macbeth  as  a poetical  conception,  with  this  strong 
distinction,  that  she  commands  more  respect  and 
esteem,  and  less  sympathy.  The  murder  in  which 
she  participates  is  ordained  by  the  oracle — is  a^ 
act  of  justice,  and  therefore  less  a murder  than  a 
sacrifice.  Electra  is  drawn  with  magnificent  sim- 
plicity, an  intensity  of  feeling  and  purpose,  but 
there  is  a want  of  light  and  shade,  and  relief. 
Thus  the  scene  in  which  Orestes  stabs  his  mother 
within  her  chamber,  and  she  is  heard  pleading  for 
mercy,  while  Electra  stands  forward  listening  ex- 
ultingly  to  her  mother’s  cries,  and  urging  her 
brother  to  strike  again,  “another  blow!  another!” 
etc.,  is  terribly  fine,  but  the  horror  is  too  shocking, 
too  physical — if  I may  use  such  an  expression;  it 
will  not  surely  bear  a comparison  with  the  murder- 
ing scene  in  Macbeth,  where  the  exhibition  of 
various  passions — the  irresolution  of  Macbeth,  the 
bold  determination  of  his  wife,  the  deep  suspense, 
the  rage  of  the  elements  without,  the  horrid  still- 
ness within,  and  the  secret  feeling  of  that  infernal 
agency  w'hich  is  ever  present  to  the  fancy,  even 
when  not  visible  on  the  scene — throw  a rich  color- 
ing of  poetry  over  the  whole,  which  does  not  take 
from  “the  present  horror  of  the  time,”  and  yet  re- 
lieves it.  Shakspeare’s  blackest  shadows  are  like 
those  of  Rembrandt’s;  so  intense,  that  the  gloom 
which  brooded  over  Egypt  in  her  day  of  wrath  was 
pale  in  comparison — yet  so  transparent  that  we 
seem  to  see  the  light  of  heaven  through  their 
depth. 

In  the  whole  compass  of  dramatic  poetry  there 
vs  but  one  female  character  which  can  be  placed 


381 


Lady  Macbeth. 

near  that  of  Lady  Macbeth — the  “Medea.”  Not 
the  vulgar,  voluble  fury  of  the  Latin  tragedy,* 
nor  the  Medea  in  a hoop  petticoat  of  Corneille, 
but  the  genuine  Greek  Medea — the  Medea  of  Euri- 
pides.f 

There  is  something  in  the  Medea  which  seizes 
irresistibly  on  the  imagination.  Her  passionate 
devotion  to  Jason  for  whom  she  had  left  her 
parents  and  country — to  whom  she  had  given  all, 
and 

Would  have  drawn  the  spirit  from  her  breast 
Had  he  but  asked  it,  sighing  forth  her  soul 
Into  his  bosom,  t 

the  wrongs  and  insults  which  drive  her  to  despera- 
tion— the  horrid  refinements  of  cruelty  with  which 
she  plans  and  executes  her  revenge  upon  her  faith- 
less husband — the  gush  of  fondness  with  which 
she  weeps  over  her  children,  whom  in  the  next 
moment  she  devotes  to  destruction  in  a paroxysm 
of  insane  fury,  carry  the  terror  and  pathos  of 
tragic  situation  to  their  extreme  height.  But  if 
we  may  be  allowed  to  judge  through  the  medium 
of  a translation,  there  is  a certain  hardness  in  the 
manner  of  treating  the  character,  which  in  some 
degree  defeats  the  effect.  Medea  talks  too  much: 
her  human  feelings  and  superhuman  power  are 
not  sufficiently  blended.  Taking  into  considera- 
tion the  different  impulses  which  actuate  Medea 

* Attributed  to  Seneca. 

t The  comparison  has  already  been  made  in  an  article  in 
the  Reflector.  It  will  be  seen,  on  a reference  to  that  very 
masterly  essay,  that  I differ  from  the  author  in  his  concep- 
tion of  Lady  Macbeth’s  character. 

t Apollonius  Rhodius.— See  Elton’s  “Specimens  of  the 
Classic  Poets.’’ 


382  Shakspeare’s  Heroines. 

and  Lady  Macbeth  as  love,  jealousy  and  revenge 
on  the  one  side,  and  ambition  on  the  other,  we 
expect  to  find  more  of  female  nature  in  the  first 
than  in  the  last;  and  yet  the  contrary  is  the  fact: 
at  least,  my  own  impression  as  far  as  a woman  may 
judge  of  a woman  is,  that  although  the  passions  of 
Medea  are  more  feminine,  the  character  is  less  so; 
we  seem  to  require  more  feeling  in  her  fierceness* 
more  passion  in  her  frenzy;  something  less  of 
poetical  abstraction — less  art — fewer  words;  her 
delirious  vengeance  we  might  forgive,  but  her 
calmness  and  subtlety  are  rather  revolting. 

These  two  admirable  characters,  placed  in  con- 
trast to  each  other,  afford  a fine  illustration  of 
SchlegeFs  distinction  between  the  ancient  or 
Greek  drama,  which  he  compares  to  sculpture,  and 
the  modern  or  romantic  drama  which  he  compares 
to  painting.  The  Gothic  grandeur,  the  rich 
chiaroscuro,  and  deep-toned  colors  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth, stand  thus  opposed  to  the  classical  elegance 
and  mythological  splendor,  the  delicate  yet  inflexi- 
r ble  outline  of  the  Medea.  If  I might  be  permitted 
to  carry  this  illustration  still  further  I would  add 
that  there  exists  the  same  distinction  between  the 
lady  Macbeth  and  the  Medea,  as  between  the 
Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  the  Medusa  of 
the  Greek  gems  and  bas-reliefs.  In  the  painting, 
the  horror  of  the  subject  is  at  once  exalted  and 
softened  by  the  most  vivid  coloring  and  the  most 
magical  contrast  of  light  and  shade.  We  gaze, 
until  from  the  murky  depths  of  the  background 
the  serpent  hair  seems  to  stir  and  glitter  as  if  in- 
stinct with  life,  and  the  head  itself,  in  all  its  ghast- 
liness and  brightness,  appears  to  rise  from  the  can- 


383 


Lady  Macbeth 

vas  with  the  glare  of  reality.  In  the  Medusa  of 
sculpture  how  different  is  the  effect  on  the  imag- 
ination! We  have  here  the  snakes  convolving 
round  the  winged  and  graceful  head:  the  brows 
contracted  with  horror  and  pain,  but  every  feature 
is  chiseled  into  the  most  regular  and  faultless  per- 
fection; and  amid  the  Gorgon  terrors  there  rests 
a marbly,  fixed,  supernatural  grace,  which,  without 
reminding  us  for  a moment  of  common  life  or  na- 
ture stands  before  us  a presence,  a power,  and  an 
enchantment! 


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Cabinet  officers.  Revised  and  up-to-date. 


Altemus'  Yoimg  Peoples*  Library.— Continued. 


Vic.  The  Autobiography  of  a Eox-Terrior.  By 
Marie  More-March.  With  24  illustrations. 

The  Story  of  Adventure  in  the  Frozen  Seas. 
With  70  illustrations.  By  Prescott  Holmes. 
The  book  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished 
by  steady  perseverance  and  indomitable  pluck. 

illustrated  Natural  History.  By  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  with  80  illustrations.  This  author  has 
done  more  to  popularize  the  study  of  natural 
history  than  any  other  writer.  The  illustrations 
are  striking  and  life-like. 

A Child’s  History  of  England.  By  Charles 
Dickens,  with  50  illustrations.  Tired  of  listen- 
ing to  his  children  memorize  the  twaddle  of  old- 
fashioned  English  history,  the  author  covered 
the  ground  in  his  own  peculiar  and  happy  style 
for  his  own  children’s  use.  When  the  work 
was  published  its  success  was  instantaneous. 
Black  Beauty  : The  Autobiography  of  a Horse. 
By  Anna  Sewell,  with  50  illustrations.  This 
work  is  to  the  animal  kingdom  what  “ Uncle 
Tom’s  Cabin  ” was  to  the  Afro-American. 

| The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments.  With 
130  illustrations.  Contains  the  most  favorably 
known  of  the  stories. 

Grimm’s  Fairy  Tales.  With  55  illustrations. 
The  tales  are  a wonderful  collection,  as  in- 
teresting, from  a literary  point  of  view,  as  they 
are  delightful  as  stories. 

| Flower  Fables.  By  Louisa  May  Alcott.  With 
numerous  illustrations,  full-page  and  text. 

j A series  of  very  interesting  fairy  tales  by  the 

most  charming  of  American  story-tellers. 

Andersen’s  Fairy  Tales.  By  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  With  77  illustrations. 

These  wonderful  tales  are  not  only  attractive 
to  the  young,  but  equally  acceptable  to  those 
of  mature  years. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Gontinued. 


Grandfather’s  Chair ; A History  for  Youth.  By 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  With  60  illustrations. 

The  story  of  America  from  the  landing  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  acknowledgment  without  re- 
serve of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States, 
j Aunt  Martha’s  Corner  Cupboard.  By  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  Kirby,  with  60  illustrations.  Stories 
about  Tea,  Coffee,  Sugar,  Rice  and  Chinaware, 
and  other  accessories  of  the  well-kept  Cupboard. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  Independence.  By 
Prescott  Holmes,  with  70  illustrations.  A j 
graphic  and  full  history  of  the  Rebellion  of  the  j 
American  Colonies  from  the  yoke  and  oppres-  J 
sion  of  England.  Including  also  an  account  of 
the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  and  the 
War  with  Mexico. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  the  Union.  By  Prescott 

Holmes,  with  80  illustrations.  A correct  and 
impartial  account  of  the  greatest  civil  war  in 
the  annals  of  history.  Both  of  these  histories 
of  American  wars  are  a necessary  part  of  the  edu- 
cation of  all  intelligent  American  boys  and  girls. 

Water  Babies.  By  Charles  Kingsley,  with  84 
illustrations.  A charming  fairy  tale. 

Young  People’s  History  of  the  War  with  Spain. 

By  Prescott  Holmes,  with  86  illustrations.  The 
story  of  the  war  for  the  freedom  of  Cuba, 
arranged  for  young  readers. 

Heroes  of  the  United  States  Navy.  By,  Hart- 
well James,  with  65  illustrations.  From  the 
days  of  the  Revolution  until  the  end  of  the 
War  with  Spain. 

Military  Heroes  of  the  United  States.  By 

Hartwell  James,  with  nearly  100  illustrations. 
Their  brave  deeds  from  Lexington  to  Santiago, 
told  in  a captivating  manner. 

Uncle  Toni’s  Cabin.  By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
with  50  illustrations.  Arranged  for  young 
readers. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.  By  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb.  With  65  illustrations. 


Altemus*  Young  Peoples*  Library.— Continued. 


Adventures  in  Toyland.  70  illustrations. 
Adventures  of  a Brownie.  18  illustrations. 
Mixed  Pickles,  31  illustrations. 

Little  Lame  Prince.  24  illustrations. 

The  Sleepy  King,  77  illustrations. 
Romulus,  the  Founder  of  Rome.  With  49 
illustrations. 

Cyrus  the  Great,  the  Founder  of  the 
Persian  Empire.  With  40  illustrations. 
Darius  the  Great,  King  of  the  Medes  and 
Persian.  With  34  illustrations. 

Xerxes  the  Great,  King  of  Persia,  With 
39  illustrations. 

Alexander  the  Great,  King  of  Macedon. 
With  51  illustrations. 

Pyrrhus,  King  of  Epirus.  With  45  illus- 
trations. 

Hannibal,  the  Carthaginian.  With  37  illus- 
trations. 

Julius  Csssar,  the  Roman  Conqueror, 

With  44  illustrations. 

Alfred  the  Great,  of  England.  With  40 
illustrations. 

William  the  Conqueror,  of  England,  With 
43  illustrations. 

Hernando  Cortez,  the  Conqueror  of 
Mexico,  With  30  illustrations. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  With  45  illustrations. 
Queen  Elizabeth,  of  England.  With  49 
illustrations. 

King  Charles  the  First,  of  England.  With 
41  illustrations. 

King  Charles  the  Second,  of  England. 

With  38  illustrations. 

Maria  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.  With 

41  illustrations. 

Madam  Roland,  A Heroine  of  the  French 
Revolution.  With  42  illustrations. 
Josephine,  Empress  of  France.  With  40 
illustrations. 


ALTEMUS’  ILLUSTRATED  DEVOTIONAL  SERIES 


An  entirely  new  line  of  popular  Religious  Litera- 
ture, carefully  printed  on  fine  paper,  daintily  and 
durably  bound  in  handy  volume  size. 

Full  White  Vellum,  handsome  new  mosaic  design, 
in  gold  and  colors,  gold  edges,  boxed,  50  cents. 

...  1 Abide  in  Christ*  Murray . 

...  3 Beecher’s  Addresses. 

...  4 Best  Thoughts.  From  Henry  Drummon&m 
...  5 Bible  Birthday  Book. 

...  6 Brooks’  Addresses. 

...  7 Buy  Your  Own  Cherries,  Kirion , 

...  8 Changed  Cross,  The. 

...  9 Christian  Life.  Oxenden, 

...10  Christian  Living.  Meyer . 

...12  Christie’s  Old  Organ.  Walton . 

...13  Coming  to  Christ.  Havergal. 

...14  Daily  Food  for  Christians. 

...15  Day  Breakeih,  The.  Shugert . 

...17  Drummond’s  Addresses. 

...18  Evening  Thoughts.  Havergal . 

...19  Gold  Dust. 

...20  Holy  in  Christ. 

...21  Imitation  of  Christ,  The,  A' Kempis. 

...22  Impregnable  Rock  of  Holy  Scripture. 

Gladstone « 

...23  Jessica’s  First  Prayer.  Stretton . 

...24  John  Ploughman’s  Pictures.  Spurgeon * j 
...25  John  Ploughman’s  Talk.  Spurgeon . 

.,.26  Kept  for  the  Master’s  Use.  Havergah 
...27  Keble’s  Christian  Year. 

...28  Let  Us  Follow  Him.  Sienkiewicz • 

...29  Like  Christ.  Murray . 

...30  Line  Upon  Line. 

...31  Manliness  of  Christ,  The.  Hughes . 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


...32  Message  of  Peace,  The.  Church . 

...33  Morning  Thoughts.  Havergal. 

...34  My  King  and  His  Service.  Havergal . 

...35  Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World. 

^ _ . Drummond . 

...37  Pathway  of  Promise. 

...38  Pathway  of  Safety.  Oxenden . 

...39  Peep  of  Day. 

...40  Pilgrim’s  Progress,  The.  Bunyan . 

...41  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...42  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.  Ingraham . 

...44  Shepherd  Psalm.  Meyer . 

...45  Steps  Into  the  Blessed  Life.  Meyer . 

...46  Stepping  Heavenward.  Prentiss . 

...47  The  Throne  of  Grace. 

...50  With  Christ.  Murray . 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  (a  History).  By  John  Loth- 
rop  Motley.  55  full-page  half-tone  Engravings.  Complete  in 
two  volumes — over  1,600  pages.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  per  set, 
$: 2.00 . Half  Morocco,  gilt  top,  per  set,  $3  25. 

Quo  Vadis.  A tale  of  the  time  of  Nero,  by  Henryk  Sienkiewicz. 
Complete  and  unabridged.  Translated  by  Dr.  S.  A.  Binion. 
Illustrated  by  M.  De  Lipman.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  ornamen- 
tal, 515  pages,  $1.25. 

With  Fire  and  Sword.  By  the  author  of  “ Quo  Vadis. ” A 
tale  of  the  past.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo.  825  pages,  $1. 00. 

Pan  Michael.  By  the  author  of  “ Quo  Vadis.”  A historical 
tale.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo.  530  pages,  $1.00. 

Julian,  the  Apostate.  By  S.  Mereshkovski.  Illustrated.  Cloth 
i2mo.  450  pages,  $1.00. 

Manual  of  mythology.  For  the  use  of  Schools,  Art  Students, 
and  General  Readers,  by  Alexander  S.  Murray.  With  Notes, 
Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H.  Klapp.  With  200 
illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large  i2mo.  Over 
400  pages,  $1.25. 

The  Age  of  Fable;  or  Beauties  of  Mythology.  By  Thomas 
Bulfinch,  with  Notes,  Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H. 
Klapp.  With  200 illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large 
i2mo.  450  pages,  $1.25. 

Stephen.  A Soldier  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse 
Kingsley,  author  of  “Titus,  a Comrade  of  the  Cross.”  Cloth, 
i2mo.  369  pages,  $1.00. 


Henry  Altemus’  Publications. 


The  Cross  Triumphant.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley,  author 
of  “ Paul  and  Stephen. " Cloth,  i2mo.  364  pages,  $1.00. 

Paul.  A Herald  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley 
Cloth,  iamo.  450  pages,  $1.00. 

The  Pilgrim’s  Progress,  as  John  Bunyan  wrote  it.  A fac- 
simile reproduction  of  the  first  edition,  published  in  1678 
Antique  cloth,  i2mo.  #1.25. 

The  Fairest  of  the  Fair.  By  Hildegarde  Hawthorne.  Clothe 
i6mo.  $1.25. 

Around  the  World  £u  Eighty  Minutes.  Contains  over  roe 
photographs  of  the  most  famous  places  and  edifices,  with  des- 
criptive text.  Cloth,  50  cents. 

Shakespeare’s  Complete  Works.  With  64  Boydell,  and 
numerous  other  illustrations,  four  volumes,  over  2,000  pages. 
Half  Morocco,  i2mo.  Boxed,  per  set.  $3.00. 

The  Care  of  Children.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Seovil.  Cloth,  nmo. 
£1.00 

Preparation  for  Motherhood.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Seovil.  Cloth, 
i2mo.  320  pages,  $1.00. 

Baby’s  Requirements.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Seovil.  Limp  bind- 
ing, leatherette.  25  cents. 

Names  for  Children*  By  Elizabeth  Robinson  Seovil.  Cloth, 
i2mo.  40  cents. 

Trlf  and  Trixy.  By  John  Habberton,  author  of  “ Helen’s 
Babies.”  Cloth,  i2mo.  50  cents. 

She  Who  Will  Not  When  She  May.  By  Eleanor  G.  Walton. 
Half-tone  illustrations  by  C.  P.  M.  Rumford.  '‘An  exquisite 
prose  idyll."  Cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle  edges.  $1.00. 

A Son  of  the  Carolina*.  By  C.  E.  Satterthwaite.  Cloth, 
iamo.  280  pages,  50  cents. 

What  Women  Should  Know.  By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffy.  Cloth, 
320  pages,  75  cents. 

Dore  Masterpieces. 

The  Dore  Bible  Gallery.  Containing  100  full-page  engravings 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  With  50  full-page  engravings  by  Gus- 
tave Dore. 

Dante’*  Inferno.  With  75  full-page  engravings  by  Gustave 
Dore. 

Dante’s  Purgatory  and  Paradise.  With  60  full-page  engrav- 
ings by  Gustave  JDore. 

Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King.  With  37  full-page  engravings 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Hariner.  By  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  with  46  full-page  engravings  by  Gustave  Dore. 

Cloth,  ornamental,  large  quarto  (9  x 12).  Each  $2.00. 


ALTEMUS’  EDITION  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS. 

HANDY  VOLUME  SIZE. 

With  a historical  and  critical  introduction  to  each 
volume,  by  Professor  Henry  Morley. 


Limp  cloth  binding,  gold  top,  illuminated  title 

and  frontispiece 35  cts. 

Paste-gram  roan,  flexible,  gold  top  ...  50  cts. 

1.  All’s  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

2.  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

3.  A Midsummer  Night’s  Dream. 

4.  As  You  Like  It. 

5.  Comedy  of  Errors. 

-5.  Coriolanus. 


9- 

10. 


13- 

14. 

15. 

16. 
*7- 


22. 

23. 

24. 
25- 

26. 

27. 

28. 

29. 

30- 

31- 
32. 
33- 
34. 
35- 

36. 

37. 

38. 
39* 


Cymbeline. 

Hamlet. 

Julius  Caesar. 

King  Henry  IV.  (Part  S.) 

King  Henry  IV.  (Part  II.) 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.  (Part  I.) 

King  Henry  VI.  (Part  II.) 

King  Henry  VI.  (Part  III.) 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  John. 

King  Lear. 

King  Richard  If. 

King  Richard  ill. 

Love’s  Labour’s  Lost. 

Macbeth. 

Treasure  for  Measure. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Othello. 

Pericles. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

The  Tempest. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
The  Winter’s  Tale. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

Troilus  and  Cresssda. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece. 
Sonnets,  Passionate  Pilgrim,  Etc. 


